A droplet of rain.
A heron stands by the pond.
The rain starts to pour.

He dashed across the beach,
The battery of guns barking like feral dogs.
Trudging through the red sand,
He looked left and right
As brothers fell one by one.
He woke up with a scream.
Never shall he forget 1944.

Riding on the breeze of the springtime’s day
Is the sparrow with her little red wings;
Fluttering, flapping her feathers away,
She flies, unconcerned with life’s little things.

Did she sail through the sky thinking of him?
Or did she glide without a passing glance?
Would she so much as love him on a whim?
Or would he be deprived of any chance?

Shall I compare my love, then, to her flight?
Confused and fleeting on the gentle breeze?
Yet still it floats like the dove and the kite
Staying, unwav’ring on its course’s delight.

If my heart should be the sparrow’s travels;
So should it be sure that love unravels.