Beyond the silence of the windowpane
Lies sceneries in glassy streaks of rain.
The sky-sent water flows to puddles, lain
Across the path of quiet walkers’ lanes.
And faraway, the light has turned to grey
In profane skies. These seas of arduous rays
In wetness cold will celebrate this day
When wind and water chase light far away.
This life to live has several moods to call,
And melancholy’s ever-rising wall
Is built in times like these. There, trees, though tall
still sway in weakest winds of dawn’s dark thought.
To live this life is walking, to be caught
In traps of gloom, and suffering’s always got.