The rain has stopped.
But the earth barely breathes through.
For the soils are soaked
And the air, set deep into the surface.
Deep down.
Deep into the pulp of the furrow.
Where the shadows act.
As if proximity to the sun exists in different angles.
Infinitesimal at the outset.
Immeasurable at the end of the day.
This place is a repository of waning things.
Where I am part of every station and stop.
But all these to me are irrelevant.
For I am willing to well up sunlight
Even when darkness is most unforgiving.