Waiting for it to happen again.

The clouds in the air are so thick that,
If there is a sun or a moon or stars,
I cannot see.
The edge on which I sit is not lush green grass but devoid of top soil,
nothing but hard rocks and stones shaking hands with a river so lying still and stagnant, that if it were a live human being you could consider it dead.
Dead trees litter the floor and the wind is so blindingly fierce,
that I had lift up my tattered rags over my face to protect myself from the merciless barrage thrown by the siege of the wind.
But to no avail.

I had a castle once but it was torn down, never had the chance to grow...
It was meant to be beautiful: Of gold and marble and ice and wood...but it now burned to the ground,
before I could come around,
and therefore I sit here mourning my own loss.
But not entirely: I do get up and wander about, learning and struggling,
Struggling and loving,
or trying to.
With my own bare hands I've made a hut so far away from here, among the mountains where the shelter from the gust is present, even though very little.

Once in a long while,
something,
like the sun shines while I wait for it by this river: I cannot afford often to come here;
Then I wake up and try to take it hopefully,
only to disappear under the clouds of lightning whose each strike,
when hits the ground, hurts me terribly.
Bearing the brunt of each strike, then,
I sit down again, facing the hot and red river that passes by,
hunched down,
waiting for it to happen again.