The hefty walls of brick
of the old mansion,
half buried in a coffin of glass,
in sheer architectural boldness,
were all wet,
all watery
from the midnight rain,
and all covered in verses
Was only I
who could see?
Life after life,
like rain droplets drumming in a bucket,
ephemeral insects with bodies of water
on the sunny, dusty planet skin,
history is but a collection of shadows
Rain was walking slowly,
undulating its shoulders,
in a sexy strut,
down on the walls,
invisible limax
leaving behind a thick juice of verses
written in water
It’s raining in the city
the water beats the rhythm
hits the drums of quietude
with its watery limbs,
keeping busy among the insignificant events of the day,
and I read a poem
written in verses of rain
on the walls
of the old mansion
which rests in peace
in the glass coffin
of sheer architectural boldness
