I tell you
Rain has no beauty about it.
Still if you write
and I sing
like the half-wit
liars
in feminine extol-
we ought to be sworn at;
For it breaks the heaven
o'er the dogs on the street
and to the man
who can't sit at home
being stared at
by faces
half-famished:
diminished.
(Sunday, November 26,2005)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem