The Dream of a Rainfall


In that little house, afar off,

which housed in childhood’s years the reserves

of the life which played joyously

in that half-hidden view of the world,

with a heart’s flutter of anticipation

of an aim alloyed

by soul and bodies gone astray,

it is time that I entered in again

to that lonely little house,

worn out by choices and doings

which have collected in muddled heaps

and blocked the road of life.


There’s the little house, beautiful still it stands

amid the garden,

but wrapped in bushes, leaves and branches,

which loved it more than I did,

when I wandered aimlessly in the world.


As I look through the windows

at the leaves of the trees flying

like yellow and red butterflies

in the breath of the wind,

forgetfulness of the world comes

like a fresh breeze

on a forehead inflamed with cares

from the labyrinthine worlds of the useless.

Autumn of nature and life,

how beautifully they go together,

but the uncorrupted meaning

is still hidden.

Some discord has wormed its way

cunningly and covertly from the gaze of life

and tarnished the absolute match.

The human autumn has lost its glory.

But here’s the rain which has begun,

so slight and invisible,

upon the earth thirsting for hope

open-handedly scatters life.

The peeping of the primal nakedness

has not had time to grow to manhood,

nature’s tear was joyful;

it shattered despondency

with a start upon a new life.


In this guileless joy

the snares of the world have loosened.

No humbling tomb will receive

the frayed remnants of life.

The fiery being lies in wait to give the message.

Rainfalls of tears have heroically drowned the mistakes

and with impetus like the light

have poured themselves out on the slopes of time,

on the grooves left

by the spirit for signposts

to a new beginning which was perpetually built

by the unseen soul, that waited

in the gold-woven garment of joy

which so beautifully mingled pain with what is new,

in an outburst of joy.

The rivers of tears have now become

rivers of fire which built

the new world of the soul

in the same old body, which waited

for the woof of its fate to unravel.


And who would have thought that the rain,

in the boundlessness of nature,

has long since laid out

the road of untiring joy?

Fiery flames of change

dance within the worlds,

like the drops of rain

which rolled down the windows

or like the repentant tears

which, in the forgotten house of the soul,

searched out from the very start

the fire thread of the aim

of that life which wished to blossom.


(Photograph by Yiannis Zisis)