the summer ends not with the sweeping breeze
entangled with sun, warming up your skin
but with the raking cold pounding of rain
on a steel roof, & the howl of the wind
like an impassioned affair ending
with the finality of a slammed door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Passionate hatred for the rain. Bravo. -war