Rain

When emotions pour

Iput my hood over my head. It is raining. I approach the temple. There is nothing in front of me but locked doors and unfilled memories, and rain that pours.

The world is full of stories of unrequited love. Why? One might as well ask why it rains: the rain, a great divider of peoples, between those who rush to unfurl or open umbrellas and might never experience raw passion, and the romantics who just get wet: between those who drag their umbrella, and all the accompanying accroutements with them everywhere, and those who just let it pour.

For a true feeling of what rain can bring, one ought to stand somewhere in a city; somewhere more or less precise but not quite, with shining pavements, blurred lights and coffee shops, raindrops rolling down window panes, and a cold emptiness of waiting.

What made him paint this, a scene imbued with such recklessly overt atmosphere? Yes, I can hear the rainfall, and yet again, I glance at the perhaps forlorn figure, to check if she has perhaps stepped forward. What anticipation! What a story is unfolding, with no past or future, yet a story so full it is almost bursting…

she waits
in a crows
as lonely as the night