In the alleys of hotless rain,
That pour more than once, than twice,
but thrice.
Trickle down the gutter drain,
Through a dream of mine,
That craves for more divine.
Crimson low swing of relief,
And but a tragic end resolve,
In a state of disbelief.
Slow to hang on tree limb bore
And my mind at high falls to the drain,
Just like my hopes and dreams, drowned by the hotless rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem