mellow skies
open to the world
the morning dies
without a trace in a fold
raining patting
letting the fate pray
the rain starts dreaming
in the hurried gray
bashing crashing
a little water starts to fray
on the shore - crying
stones born at the bay
deciding screaming
winds blow the raining
of course to say
maybe it’s time - raising
all this at day
fleeting nights
closed to the snow
the evening fights
left without even a bow