It's raining.

   Sometimes when people are awed or shocked they feel the need to say something but cannot think of anything particularly inteligable to say. Stating the obvious tends to be a common action in that situation.

    It's raining.

   Some people associate rain with sadness. God is weeping. Some people, such as farmers, can't afford to see it in an emoutional way-it is only a tool. Others dance in the rain, bare footed, laughing and swallowing drops in turn.

    Not pouring. Not sprinkling. Just raining.

   There is a horrid pain that bursts in your chest when a bad thing happens. And I look upon this women, crippled by the same pain, bending in toward the mud. Her pain has unleashed her every bit of strength. Every bit of that strength tears through her lungs and screams through the air, soaring throughout the mountain tops.

    It's raining.

   She wails, calapsed to her knees, pressing herself to the mud as if she were trying to be absorbed inside it or as though she were trying to force it to say something back. But nature does not answer wishes nor does it sucome to emoution. It does what it does when it does it.

    It's raining.

   She died one thousand times for every single drop that touched her cold skin. The communication conveyed in her howls was not lost on the crowd. Her death would live forever. The rain did not increase to a raging storm to match the mood, no. Why should something as powerful as nature feel the obligation to match any mood?

    It's raining.

   Her cries reverberated through the hearts of stone walls and computer systems. There was not one thing that didn't hear her. The pain, in all it's inescapable glory, embedded itself in their memory. There are no words. And just when the pain started to become a normalacy for the women, nature did a cruel thing.

    The drops gradually slowed to a mind-jarring halt.

   She whimpered and shook. Rocking on her knees. But the rain had stopped and so had her wails. This was worse. If anything on Earth could possibly be worse than what took place a moment ago, this is it! There were no words. Or so we thought, we forgot about the obvious. The women did not whisper, the women did not shout, her voice was not monotone nor was it dripping with melancoly. There was no happiness and there was no surprise. Her voice was simply clear. Heard by anyone who listened.

    "It stopped," she said.