Rain remains in my hair.
I feel it on my skin.
Its drops are on the edges
of my eye lashes.
I am leaving the ponds
behind my steps,
while walking thirsty
on the streets of London.
I could not care less
to take, just in case,
the nicely packed umbrella
of golden colour
in the pocket of my rucksack.
Vida Nenadic
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem