The rains are born slow; drop by drop;

the drops transforming into torrents;

the torrents drenching the parched earth

But sometimes the gods are in a good mood;

they wave and the angry clouds burst forth;

the torrents drenching the parched earth

There is a stink, the fumes assaulting my senses

the stink of a city of sick souls and dead hearts

Where do you head to,

when you are heading

nowhere in particular?

What do you think of,

when you are thinking

of nothing in particular?

What do you see and what do you look for,

in the beauty of a glorious dawn?

Is it a face or is it a memory or maybe a glimpse,

or perhaps a loved one, who is now gone?

The day is white and burning,

scalding and suffocating;

full of test and trials

Then comes the evening,

nothing to celebrate or rejoice,

yet the evening smiles