The day we'll meet again it's raining.
The sound's just of forsaken rain
washing our desolation, desecration
demanding no answers
which scars each of our memories.
History has no time for our explanations
no compunctions to reveal itself
content as the sole omniscient.
We reconfigure ourselves to play the stranger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem