Tomorrow, who can say,
Will there be a window
where I can greet the moon?
Will the thinning cloth of dreams
accept the stitches of yet another patch?
And in the day, could I find a moment's charity?
Day after day the rains fall cold and grim.
I see the folk gritting their bodies, all tensed,
as though to steel against it.
Can we dream of clarity, when it rains?
Don't speak.. no, don't say it.  Don't tell.