142: Then Came the Storm

Thunder rolled in like waves through a vast sea of sky, preluding the soft smattering of rain that was soon to become inescapable. Plummeting down from far above the raindrops hit the earth like little fireworks—minute explosions that would sink back into the soil and start the cycle again. I thought of Chopin's 'Raindrop Prelude', the persistent basso ostinato that grows evermore relentless as the piece unfolds, seeping into the soul of the listener, drumming into their ears like a plea—for what? A ray of sunlight blinking through the clouds? Hope in a time of despair? Chopin composed the piece while suffering from a bout of tuberculosis that would eventually kill him, in the Valldemossa monastery during a storm. Or perhaps the persistent A-flat is simply a repeated note, reflecting the rhythm of the raindrops on the roof. Chopin dismissed this notion, insisting that his composition existed in a realm far beyond 'slavish imitations' of sound. Widely regarded as a masterpiece, the Raindrop Prelude is indeed a feat of musical genius.

Nonetheless, when without a piano or virtuosic skill, the sound of rainfall is a comfort. Relentless swathes of wind and rain smother the empty space between the earth and sky, and the earth surrenders, sheaths of rain sweeping through the air to throw a blanket of sound over the night. A sound that will continue to roll in with every storm, through the seasons, the years, the centuries, long after the last pianos have turned to dust, and long after the last people have listened.

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Written by: Millie Bysh

Instagram: @leoninepixie

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.