And time shall pass

And who said that the rain is annoying, when the whispers of wisdom come during the night and fall form the sky all over the prairies like pearls running down the trees of heights down the streams on the ridges of the stems and trunks as they cut the air in all of those worlds that still remain hidden to our eyes, cut and shade of every drop. Subtle in the vicinity imponent from afar. 

No doubt that as it metamorphoses it becomes light as a different wisdom as a different escape from the non existent. But the fact of its marvelous reality of the marve of becoming real, owes the primordial spark to some sort of odious natural conceptualization that in spite of Zeus or any human thought confers the capacity to sustain itself as a drop or rain in time and space. And as the drops and pearls passes through, is its time who with its cold inexpressive irreversibility combines itself and themselves to concede without any purpose the bloom and decay of the real, the sharp cut off and the bouncing pearls of rain in a move towards the propagation of existence. There, just there in between the limits when the drop can not reverse its fall and the bounce of the pearl, the grass or the river running down the cliff I foresaw, that there is certain justice in the world, there is certain benevolent permission to become and do so every single object that appears fine to the aesthetics of the world as it is or becomes.  But this is the raw and primitive grasp of a crippled mind.