Evening rain and silent whispers.
Perhaps the wind and rain this evening hum in harmony,
and then, you arrive, with a gentle smile for me.
The clock's hands greet the golden gate,
Yet this creature of earth has reached the peak of weight-
of weariness, after striving with all his might,
now his soul, once burning, flickers out of sight.
Now, the clock moves across unyielding stone,
a distant murmur echoes from the unknown:
"I have carved my words upon a fragile page,
one I found in a classroom's quiet cage."
That day, your nimble fingers led the brush,
dancing through puddles of colors that clash.
Soft and warm was the breath you drew,
though outside, the storm fiercely grew.
"Sir, if you love the storyteller's art,
then help me paint. Let's make a start."
I pleaded with the man of the mustache, so faint.
Suddenly, time entered a fragile state,
****... my paper met its fate.
No more circles, no more lines,
Oh, Sir, why do you stay silent, ignoring my signs?
Lend me your muscular body after breakfast,
to be my painting canvas.