At the Exhibition of Umbrellas
Taken by my own thoughts,
my words and hopes,
pressed by tones of illusions and pain,
I often feel the floods in my eyes.
Then, I wish for the rain.
Persistently trying everywhere
to smell the sun,
always when it rains in London
I go without the ticket for admission
to visit that umbrella exhibition.
Then I do not see the people.
I do not see their faces.
They vanish from the streets without traces.
I do not see anything except
half a million umbrellas.
I see only the yellow, the green
and all colorful umbrellas.
I see the most common ones which are black,
and usually left behind in bins and bags
because of their damaged wires.
I see the brightest red, shining under the rain,
like strawberries in their fields.
Above all I see clearly these which are blue
and while washed away,
they are like the sea waves and your eyes.
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Comments about this poem (At the Exhibition of Umbrellas by Vida Nenadic )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Michael P. McParland
- Christina Georgina Rossetti
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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