He took his umbrella and turned away
And walked down the dark, rainy road.
I did not think that he’d look back,
I did not want him to look back.
In the grey puddles I can see my face,
And the hot precipitation down my face.
Mad, I sing a careless, confident tune,
Just to make sure that he’ll not turn back.
But I think the clouds above weren’t fooled;
They were black and grey with no sight of blue.
The brave blackbirds on the wires dropped dead,
And I locked my numb heart in my head.
Tomorrow I should throw a funeral
For the girl left here who isn’t me at all.
He looked back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem