Scholars and scientists could’ve scarcely dreamed of,

Or pontificated the mysteries of,

Or conceived the selcouth realm

Of a little place called Rain.

 

One could wander in its mystical forests,

Or fly around in its vaulted skies,

And at the same time dive to the depths of the lakes

That coruscate the skies above.

 

But age brings the end to all things,

Metal, roses or people,

And so the same fate awaits

That little place called Rain.

 

Once the place grew too old,

It’s halls were dusty and its rivers too,

A death fell upon

That little place called Rain.

 

But perhaps this might’ve been avoided,

Had the halls and rivers been taken care of,

For age might continue to grow,

But the continued use of its harbors and forests

Would’ve meant life

For that little place called Rain.