Didn’t I stroll under its refreshing mist a thousand times? Didn’t it
make me wet on the way to school? Didn’t it ruin my homework
times and again? Didn’t the young palms of my hands endure the
sting of punishment every time? Didn’t it give me the cold, the
congested nose, the cough and the horrible taste of cough syrup
afterward? Didn’t I drop the vitamin C tablet in a glass of water,
dazzled with the fizzle and down it with a frown? Wasn’t it all
because of rain?
Wasn’t my first kiss under a broken umbrella? Wasn’t it there
sweet flavor of raindrops between our steamy lips? If it wasn’t a
rainy day, where does the misty recollection come from? Why is it
flowing in my poem? Why does it shower my thoughts? Why do I
think of rain when I’m blue? Why does it complement my delight?
Was it not true that when my aunt died, I cried under the rain?
Didn’t rain wash my tears? Didn’t my sorrow make it fall? If rain
has no feelings, where does its sympathy come from? Why are my
And now it’s pouring, this capricious rain. It’s madly knocking on
my lonely door, splashing on the walls of my sorrow and drumming
on the roof of my youth. It’s seeping through the window cracks of
my room, dripping on the vintage photos of mine. Through the
foggy glass, I feel its pain and embrace its hazy presence. Its beads
are freezing on the tips of nude branches. Autumn has taken over,
leaves have fallen. A long cold season is on the way. Rain knows it
well. Maybe I should too.