• He sifts through grains of sands
    Lifts up his old weathered hands
    Breaches the heavens, opens a rift and makes it rain
    The spiritual realm being his domain

    They call him the Rainmaker man
    A shaman and healer with a short lifespan
    He watches over creeping death
    Sometimes bringing forth new life, endowed by a blow of his breath

    He should have died a long time ago, but still lives
    Sometimes when it rains I think he grieves
    Knowing how fragile people are,
    Always thirsty and taking, leaving themselves bare

    Tending to mens souls
    Waiting for the day when they sprout and glow