that's the time, never wait, even for a moment
it's a short night, the rain leaves no twilight in the clouds, the lights start to turn on, no time to write poetry
do you still see children playing in the rain? I look at myself, raining down on memories.
let the rain become rivers that convey the longing of the clouds to the sea
you become the mutter of rain, so poetry is not really understood, on the branches when the patter is restrained