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The lush green hills near Kiama are open to the raining,
It is a violent, swirling love-making that is unlike flesh.
That elements should play one another is beyond singing,
For the rain has no will to be. It is as free as a wish.
Let your hands conceal your eyes, be wary of the mourning,
It is keen, resolved and constant. Do not ignore the warning.
For many, the rain in the dark skies, will drench the heart’s fire,
And the floods from heaven will drown the longing to aspire.
The South Coast is alive with storm clouds that cover the country,
The young bird that is my soul is caught in its own nest of pain,
The lion that is my heart hides, timid about the bounty.
No one can stay, no one can defeat nor rise above the rain.
The cold winds of greed will tempt the weak when the subtle sun glows,
The defeated, laugh and shout and call themselves the fortunate.
Kiama rain, Kiama rain, fall on this poor heart again.
Let the hopeful clouds of dark colour, burst forth your calming woes,
And hold this fanciful spirit, that would dwell among the great.
Let cold ambition not spread wings beyond the purposeful rain,
But be ever felled by the joyous arrows of acceptance,
And rest in the soft roses on the golden sands of tolerance,
For I cannot forget Kiama rain, and leave all to chance,
The shower of serenity and the cloud of peace must dance.
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