The Rain That Was

The rain that clears vision.

The rain that makes love every time it falls.

In foggy morning light,

amidst misty twilight.

The rain that makes you fall in love.

The unknown passer-by’s song,

the quarrelsome midnight feud.

The rain that makes the poet write in monosyllables.

Of words of frosty winter night,

of someone’s frail eye-sight.

The rain that makes you sad when you drench alone.

Of long travelled past,

twirling alleys of famished dust.

The rain that sleeps as a little bemoaning kid.

Tired of each day’s foul play,

of building sand castles every way.

The rain that rests in the crematorium by the night.

Only to wake up at the voices of fright.

The rain that will be again.

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