It Rains, and You Say It’s as If the Clouds Are About to Cry
It rains, and you say it’s as if the clouds are about to cry.
Then you close your mouth and quicken
your pace. But what if these wretched clouds are mourning?
Impossible. Then why this anger,
this despair that seems to drag us all to hell?
Nature hides some of its processes in mystery,
its brother.
So this afternoon—
which you might think resembles the world’s final dusk—
sooner than you expect, will seem only
a melancholic afternoon, an afternoon of lost solitude.
In memory: Nature’s mirror.
Or you will forget it.
Neither the rain, nor the tears, nor your steps
chasing you downhill, matter.
Now, you may cry and let your reflection fade
on the windows of cars parked
along the promenade. But you cannot be lost.
