The rain patters with tiny crystalline taps,
on my windshield. With brittle glass
pencils it traces the image of your face,
until I see it in the beaded lace,
of my windshield.
Bitter tears spill down my cheeks as I
try in vain to touch that place on the pane.
Helplessly I listen and watch,
as the rain sketches a diamond lane,
through my heart's pain, across my windshield.
Last night, the news blared, there was one
victim in yesterday's drive by.
Darling, it wasn't true. There were two.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow... thanks for the warning, Mary. Tragic, but at the same time, a great write! Brian