Sounds of rain falling on rooftops, reminding me of
younger days when our house had a tin roof, listen-
ing intently to their natural rhythms.
Totally attuned to each of them as I write poetry,
each thought taking ideas and spreading them like
ink upon paper in the form of words.
Watching as their scribbles become sentences mak-
ing sense to this mind when reading them, thinking
of those raindrops tinkering on the roof back then.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem