Contest - Easter Egg #2

I am not a painter. Even if I were one, I could not have drawn your picture. I really don't like that it rained on a day when I wanted to spend time with you.

I don't like this rain at this time when you are quietly drying your wet hair sitting on the chair in front of me with your eyes closed. I wanted to take you out, but it's raining cats and dogs.

I am feeling as if I am about to write the most beautiful poem in the world, and this rain has scattered my ideas around the world's most beautiful face like stray thoughts.

My eyes were trembling. For the first time that day, not being a painter myself felt as sad as committing suicide. I might have even killed myself, but the smell coming from your hair stopped me.

I also write a little, but I cannot put that fragrance into words. It seemed as if so much rain had kissed the flowers of my night queen.

Now, if there was scope for some action in me, then maybe I would have gotten up and locked that fragrance in a small vial and applied it to my fingers.

Source

That was the first time I saw your wet, open hair, but I didn't know why I had the feeling that maybe I had seen you before.

Maybe 20–30 years ago. Maybe I was a laborer then. Perhaps I was doing welding by hanging on a rope on the third floor of a building. When I saw you drying your hair on a chair in the front room of the house. The music is blaring at full volume but I am not getting any excitement!

Oh, I wanna get it a little more sunny to bring my girl back in her original beauty!

My eyes got a strange anger seeing your black and magical thread-like hair wet. I swore that day, while getting wet in the rain, that I would always keep you safe from the rain.

Today, to capture the peace of your face and the wetness of your hair in words, I will surely become a writer one day or another. I can write a few words now, but maybe I was okay when I was a laborer. I should not have thought of becoming a writer.

I am such a silly writer that I cannot describe this scene in words. Nor am I so rich in art that I can become a painter and make a picture of yours.

But why are your eyes closed like a wet bird in this rain? Right now, your thick, black, wet hair makes you look like an alien from another world to me.

When will this rain stop?

When will your wet hair be dry? Maybe when this rain stops, I will be able to write a few words for your face and black, wet hair. I know you're more beautiful than the purest soul in the world.

I think I should start preparing to put your face and wet hair on the canvas. No, there is no point in going out in so much rain.