Sometimes I see her falling rain
through the foggy kitchen window.
Watch her sway in blossom trees,
whispers heard when raindrops splash,
touch me softly standing still.
Crooked lines draw the misted pane.
Beads roll down, collecting years.
They settle gray on a sun-baked sill,
swimming silent pools of tears,
spill the waiting ground again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem