Raindrop Prelude
The myriad of dew
After a storm
Was Chopin’s muse
The droplets fell
And his illness began to swell
But he continued to write with a pen
Blood and tears were his ink as well
Bed ridden during a tranquil rain shower
Then hit with immense turmoil
A storm that mirrored his internal struggle
All coalesced into a flurry
Of fiery ivory and diminished melodies
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