A Silver Rain Poem by James McLain

Dear mother,
of my from your, 'O.
I am with the sickness of his love,
his love for me it grows inside.
I was once amused above his head,
my dreams you laid them out for me.
Now below the foam of waves I rise.
And where I go, you cannot raise them up.
Still I am not so bitter that it was broke.
I had to die for him,
and is this the way, you grew my love?

So, it is peaceful here and quiet.
The place of where there is a silver rain,
a place where there is music of the sea.
I hear a bird that kicks the center of my melody.
When once again the nest is empty,
and one of those I had to hide inside, eternity.