|At our home, there are nights when the rain poured as if all the rivers of the earth were converging, pouring over the edge of the world, and by the by we are in its midst.
The beams above us are as Atlas upholding our bubble of the world from the battering waters, and somewhere in the halls we can hear the constant lonely drip of an errant stream.
Splashes here and there remind us that we are not above the gods, to shirk our Mother’s rainfall. It is not below us to be reminded that we, of whom the divine right us placed upon, are of the earth, and the earth of us.
Should we forget the grit in our murky clay, should we forget the kindness of seasons, those rivers are better to drown us in their Life, than to leave us to reap the labor of the earth.
Should we never see the floodwaters free, let these beams of tree and stone return to this ground to crash upon us.
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