I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
It's an excerpt; there's plenty more.
It's marvelously cloudy today in Bombay, and yet they hang above me lightly. They aren't too dark, nor too wispy, and just the right colour to evoke fond thoughts of monsoons without the inconveniences. It won't rain today, it's too soon. But this is a hint, a tease: I'm coming, it won't be long now.
Incidentally, 'clouds and rain' is an euphemism for sex in China, because the act is as natural as clouds and rain.