A Cloudy Morning Poem by Mihaela Pirjol

Crude green and grey
the vast expanse,
torpid
after the nocturnal torrential orgy:
raindrops—confetti after the ball,
intermittently producing
crystalline sounds
like the Chinese water torture
on the forehead:
torturing
with a delightful tranquillity
through the traffic
flopping in the puddles.
Grey clouds float
in the sky like smoke
from an extinguished fire,
but they smell fresh
with a revived life.
Suddenly,
a hooded crow croaks
through the traffic noise,
solitary as if the only bird left,
and almost indistinctively,
far in the distance
some other birds are chirping
sounding like tiny or tired birds,
or just awoken birds;
yet progressively
this morning they sound clearer
and lovelier than any other day:
like the joy of survival,
and the sun salutes us once again!