The rain drips in droplets, it falls and it patters
and lands in the street where it gradually scatters.
It flows into puddles and pools and in streams;
it hides in the gutters where it silently screams;
it mourns for the time when its life was thin air,
before storm and clouds, when there was no despair.
I look through my window at those in the street,
at hustle and bustle and scurrying feet.
I cannot distinguish the one from the other,
as if they were born without father or mother.
They�re raindrops in rivers en-route to the sea
they're flowing as water that no more is free.
But in shadows before me, reflected in glass,
I see a frail person refusing to pass.
I feel that I�m with all the others below;
my mind and my body, they flow in their flow.
So what is that image I see in reflection?
It�s the tear of a raindrop that flows in dejection.