Didn’t I stroll under its refreshing mist a thousand times?
Didn’t it make me wet on the way to school?
Didn’t it ruin my homework on the way to class?
Didn’t the young palms of my hands endure the sting of punishment because of rain?
Didn’t it give me the cold, congested nose, cough and the horrible taste of cough syrup afterward? Didn’t I drop the vitamin C tablet in a glass of water, dazzled with the fizzle and down with a frown? Wasn’t it all because of rain?
Wasn’t my first kiss under a broken umbrella?
Wasn’t it the haze of rain between our feverish lips?
If it wasn’t for rain, where does the misty recollection come from?
Why is it flowing in my poem?
Why does it shower my thoughts?
Why do I think of rain when I’m blue?
Why does it complement my delight?
Was it not true that when my aunt died, I cried under the rain?
Didn’t rain wash my tears?
Didn’t my sorrow make it fall?
If rain has no feelings,
Where does its sympathy come from?
Why are my sentiments soaked?
Now it’s pouring again, this capricious rain.
Madly knocking on my lonely door,
Splash on the walls of sorrow
Beating despair on the roof.
It’s seeping through the window cracks
Dripping on the vintage photos of mine
Through the foggy glass I embrace its presence
Autumn has arrived, leaves have fallen
Sparkling raindrops on the tips of branches.
A long cold season is on the way
Rain knows it well. Perhaps I must too.