Like a river of cold tears, that gentle Autumn rain
Streams down my window. Somewhere outside
A gale caresses the trees, whirls them around,
Carrying away their leaves, like broken fragments
Of a memory.

I can't sleep, because I don't want to. That late
Summer air fills my lungs, cooling me from the
Inside. My legs tingle from sitting a little awkward,
So I lie my head back, face the curtains, and wonder
At the rain.

I couldn't have known. Beyond my roof, a few feet
From my bed, a quiet breeze would rush along
And streak past my window, blow my curtains
Aside, carrying with it the faraway sensations
Of the world below.

Alone I sat in silence. I was not to feel the cold,
Wrapped up in my little duvet. I felt only the cool
Embrace of solemnity kiss my forehead, stir past,
And disperse among the bedsheets. I wanted to cry,
But they were good tears.

I will never forget. When I am alone, my curtains
Will brush against the window-pane, thin-paced,
And the tears will come again. Good tears, I think.
When I was little, I couldn't have known;
Those were the days.