The rain is a ****,
she regularly pounds the streets
and plants wet kisses on all she meets
so different from her sister sun
bestowing favours on everyone

I’m painting my love in autumn colors.
I’m painting the flame of leaves underfoot,
The greyish sky, rainy and foggy.
The crying love is a natural mood.

Boarded benches are in the park
Under the shade of naked trees.
And fog is ahead, lots of fog.
My love is hidden in it indeed.

Behind the fog my love is flowing
Inexorably, irrevocably like a water.
It’s running off to nowhere away,
Without a trace forever in autumn.

I smoke my last stick
throughout the night, the smoke fades
Tomorrow, I'll starve.
The damp morning brings wet rice,
jaundiced eyes, and collapsed lungs

The brown water wanes—
Black-head buoys and a poem:
Birds sing elegies.
The sky absolves once again
Amnesia reverberates.

White so pure,
it's cleanliness sure.

Now soaked with dread
and flecked with red.

Heat of me melts into puddle,
my mind will fade and words will muddle.

Steel in chest and searing pain,
my face feels droplets of the winter's rain.

Fur of fire-blackened and bloodied,
as I lay with vision muddied.

No one will come though they look in flocks,
for I am just a simple fox.

another january rain above us,
same month, same city, same conflict,
a different ‘you’ in my poems.

i wonder what you really felt
when you slung my arm over yours,
when you relentlessly chased my hand,
those hard, seasoned fingers on mine.

i try to fight you off, but i wind up
linking our arms in a chain,
rubbing your back until i’m sore,
hearing you ramble in that car ride,
as you asked about my bruises and
searched for my hand before i cut you off,
knowing we cannot be more than this,
at least not now.

that night
when the sky sobbed watching us,
i wished you were drunk every day
and regretted that i was completely sober.

I strive, like raindrops defying the stern gravity,
or like the wearisome erosion of quartz, persistent and silent,
like rainless showers in an overcast winter sky.

Such are the rare shadows of trees in a suffocating, arid city,
akin to the hope of abundant harvests under a relentless drought.

In the waiting for tomorrow, in the rigor of time and inertia of memories,
so brief and eternal like the wandering of a tender memory;
insignificant and perpetual like the queen of the night blooming in the warm darkness,
deep and penetrating like nostalgia itself, echoing in the silence.