Despair of Tchaikovsky

Trickling down the window pane,

gentle, sweet inspiration...

vapored away,

slipping through my hand.

Renounced all in despair.

Drop, by drop.

Until clearing way.

Saturated paper.

Soaking soul,

Heavy. Must I hold?

Mustering the courage,

to breach through despair.

All in while,

when the clouds are heavy.

What in them be released.

Ink streaming down a parchment.

Make they sense?

Hear! slowly the clouds give way!

Gentle sun render me a shower!

Of warmth rays, and gentle kisses!

No! Now, hence come the clouds again..

Drop by drop.

Ha! Now come my tears.

Sullen, falling through the clouds.

who had carried them there?

All the way up there?

I renounce my ingenuity.

The Deity of clouds,

carries all the creativity.

Ah! But if be there good.

Be there bold, and brass.

Surely, might music surpass?

Author's Note

Listening to one of his piano concertos. I don't know if this poem actually makes any sense. I whipped it up in a few minutes, of boredom. I imagined Tchaikovsky sitting at a bureau, looking out the window looking for inspiration, but he sees only rain. Which I've described as both "rain" outside, and what he feels inside himself.