At The Exhibition Of Umbrellas Poem by Vida Nenadic

Taken by my own thoughts,
my words and hopes,
pressed by tones of illusions and pain,
I often feel the floods in my eyes.
Then, I wish for the rain.

Persistently trying everywhere
to smell the sun,
always when it rains in London
I go without the ticket for admission
to visit that umbrella exhibition.

Then I do not see the people.
I do not see their faces.
They vanish from the streets without traces.
I do not see anything except
half a million umbrellas.

I see only the yellow, the green
and all colorful umbrellas.
I see the most common ones which are black,
and usually left behind in bins and bags
because of their damaged wires.

I see the brightest red, shining under the rain,
like strawberries in their fields.
Above all I see clearly these which are blue
and while washed away,
they are like the sea waves and your eyes.