A thwarted sprinkle, jactitated blur of windy raindrops.

In the blossom of weary nights, where the thunder hides under the scales of gargantuan dreams swallowed by lightning teeth in miniature nightmares ... in those nights, in this night, I wonder where safe heaven is under the crimson stand of thousand many soldiers, thousand lances in a gloomy battlefront.

I have always had an ever changing relationship with rain, or raindrops and mostly the gush of flighty passion oft called wind. That said, I've always liked rain ... in a romantic, and probably naive way; enough so, that I can bluntly say I've always liked the ancient, primitive image I carved of it, rather than the real thing; I can say that and most of you will not meet my feint with two of the most obvious ripostes: a)I've spoiled my mind with noise from tasteless novels and childhood myth, and b)All we see, is but a reflection of our mind's eye.

I trust I have avoided such counter-slashes with but a mere humility, and thus helped myself out of a problem (devised so, probably in my own mind). But the fact remains, I've always liked rain. Of course I find myself annoyed, more times than a pair, by things such as drenchedness and flooding inside my house ... and although I haven't had a heart to heart conversation with Rain, I believe (from our previous encounters) that she will somehow charm me into believing that it's the prankster nature of water that makes it play such tiresome games on the unsuspecting bystander.

But I still like rain. However, she (not Water, or Wasser, but Rain, and neither rain) won't be the actual target of this swiftly fired shot. I was going to mention, that tonight I recalled that usually contradictory feeling I get, while I turn the world as I wait (don't we always wait...for something? always? probably not) under the warm shelter of an umbrella. I said it was a contradictory feeling, twice now. Here lay the two contestants. Sometimes sitting under the hand of moist fate, I feel a sheltered son, not of any mother but of the relentless assault on our days, lives and perhaps most importantly moods. I feel, replaced and relocated, I am alien to the slippery battle, the doom offensive from the Heaven realm onto the heads of us. I am, a watcher, a tormented soul in solitude among the ravages of the healing spray. And then, so are we ... everyone umbrella in hand, running away from the assaulted land. And then, I'm no alien but the vanal self of a man who doesn't like to get wet.

That is one of them...

On the other hand, an umbrella is the defender's last ditch effort. The realization that even when the battle has been lost, we will go down with some dignity, or at least as dry as we can manage. But that's never the case, an umbrella is a marvellous devise to exemplify how storms, rains and different sorts of squalls can achieve their objective even with our fierce opposition (and even at home, where they must face the choice of slowly biting away at the walls or killing some jolly sort of moods, they seem to do both jobs without much trouble): the raindrops splash nearby, the wind bites our ancles, the cars expel the moist in the air and into us, and so on and so on. But, there are times when war is fought and mere skirmishes are not enough and Bright's Realm's soldiers use their weapons ... when wind shows his muscle and wit and the raindrops slash at our faces with the determination of twenty Spartan legions. You and I have both seen this, when wind blows and raindrops open their fiery eyes and defying even our most complex plans at defining gravity, they attack us in perfect horizontal formation. And then there is no shelter, there is no illution, there is no greatness and no honor, the boat sinks and our bodies give and there is no place to hide ... not even in our fortresses, our crystal places. Because in their path there is a statement, a powerful voice to our inner heart, a whispering warning that speaks tongues of old, of thunder and lightning, of storms walking the earth way before human stench. I heard it once, for it was a raging night and their purpose was clear, and with the battlelords screaming, the war cry reached my ears; merely three words that reached me like a closed fist. A sense of sentence that said ... "Cower in fear".