The sky is raining all that he had not dared in recent months. The drought of the fields became mud and flows and erases the traces of our battles. What has remained silent all this time now screams and roars his thunders above the fields and all the suffering voices of the world echo far away.
What will remain intact at the end of the passage of this flood will be one day ready to live another story.
They are seasons that pass, which is useless to ask why it was so, why it's been so hard to get to the end of this heat that has stunned the thoughts, why this shower surprised us so violent that took away almost all the petals from flowers, why experience and knowledge did not prevent the fury of the storm from devastating the work of our days and efforts.
As every farmer knows, even the flood has to be welcomed, especially when it is over, and for the rest you count what's left and what was washed away. And from there you'll start over again.
But now is the time to stand under sheds and let the storm pass over and the sky vent the accumulated tension, crying.
And we will hear the sound of the drops for hours falling from the trees and the canopies and remember at every drop the past days of sorrow.
And we will wait for the flowers reappear on the lawns, then without having to ask "where are you?".