In general, when it rains we usually close doors and windows, which, according to experts on the subject, is a mistake. We can at least open the windows for a few minutes.
The rain can oxygenate, and therefore, purify the air in our home, that “smell of rain” we must let in. When it rains, it smells like ozone and these particles clean the air in the house.
We’ve all smelled it. Shortly before it starts to rain we are sorry. It is a very distinctive smell. And then we say: “It’s going to rain.”
That peculiar smell comes from ozone. This molecule is always present in the atmosphere, but its concentration in low-lying areas increases on stormy days. It happens because the rays favor their formation. The rain, the purifying element water, which cleanses, washes away all the bad things.
So you know, when it rains, open the windows, let the oxygen flow, the old energies come out and the new ones come in with the rain.
Vea: Federico García Lorca «Rain». Recited by Joan Mora
Poem RAIN
The rain has a vague secret of tenderness,
some resigned and friendly sleepiness,
a humble music wakes up with her
that makes the sleeping soul of the landscape vibrate.
It is a blue kiss that the Earth receives,
the primitive myth that comes true again.
The already cold contact of old heaven and earth
with a constant sunset meekness.
It’s the dawn of the fruit. The one who brings us the flowers
and anoints us with the holy spirit of the seas.
The one that spills life on the fields
and in the soul sadness of what is not known.
The terrible nostalgia of a lost life,
the fatal feeling of being born late,
or the restless illusion of an impossible tomorrow
with the near restlessness of the color of the meat.
Love wakes up in the gray of its rhythm,
our inner sky has a triumph of blood,
but our optimism turns to sadness
contemplating the dead drops on the crystals.
And they are the drops: eyes of infinity that look
to the infinite white that served them as a mother.
Every drop of rain trembles on the cloudy glass
and leave divine diamond wounds.
They are poets of the water who have seen and who meditate
what the crowd of the rivers does not know.
Oh silent rain, without storms or winds,
gentle and serene shearing rain and soft light,
good and peaceful rain that you are the real one,
the one that tearful and sad on things you fall!
Oh Franciscan rain that you carry your drops
souls of clear sources and humble springs!
When over the fields you descend slowly
the roses of my chest with your sounds you open.
The primitive song that you say to the silence
and the sound story that you tell to the branches
comments on them crying my deserted heart
in a deep black pentagram without a key.
My soul is sad from the serene rain,
resigned sadness of an unrealizable thing,
I have a bright star on the horizon
and my heart prevents me from running to contemplate you.
Oh silent rain that the trees love
and you are on the piano exciting sweetness;
you give to the soul the same mists and resonances
that you put in the sleeping soul of the landscape!
