In awe, I welcome Thor with utmost glee.
The powerful celestial force set free
among the hills and over the coarse scree.
The winds that whip and slink — the hailstones loudly clink.
Flashes segue to link — I quell the urge to blink.
My pulse quicken at the rank petrichor.
I ignore being drenched, making my soul soar,
I turn my face to the rain to taste more.
The storm will not abate — it'll make me very late
for meeting that'll seal fate — the person wouldn't wait.
Remembering that which had gone before,
our tempers complimenting to a T,
I'm quite blasé about the hot debate
and search for impressive clichés in sync.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem