Once in a while it will “rain.”
Those soft and gentle glitters that decorate the skies.
From the hour of dusk until the moon’s howl,
the crystal downpour which only happens
when the stars weep for the souls who ail.
The prayer comes like a short chant
told through stories and gossips.
No one knows of its origin
but a few learned of its after effect:
how the pavement was covered with shiny dusts,
how it taste like candy,
and how it warms the chests of those who aches.
It lulls one village into a deep, untroubled slumber
years after years after years.
The rain was called Crystal Tears.
A prayer that shouldn’t be.
A phenomenon dark and surreal.
It hurts to continue living like this
that I clasp my hand and close my eyes
before I say the words,
carefully, clearly and fervently.
Like how my late Grandmother instructed me.
To exit the chapel and head home,
to witness the downpour and how the people rejoiced of its miracle.
No one knew of the grim tale,