the night which...
more than "it is raining"
more than "through rain and wind the city tells you good-bye"
after some hours with the continuous script
that the drops leave on the sketchy main streets
one cannot be using present continuous
tomorrow it will become statistical feature-
the percentage of fullness at the dams
counted on promising millions of cubic meters
for now, though, it rains
my grief (a mixture of stress, limitations, distance)
does not melt in the way salt does
does not melt in the way of sugar.
It insists keeping the texture
of the black stone
on which the thunderbolt made its mark
Added to the hieroglyphic alphabet of birds. And their kin.
I prepare for my departure, I gave over my luggage already. Except the one I always carry with me. Except the one I cannot get rid off, words, a constant whisper.