I'm longing for a warm summer rain
with its bolero tune of raindrops –
their obsessive little noises impacting
my ear-drums – down abandoned alleys
with hurried gaudy umbrellas,
and wet children's cheeks
behind narrow windows –
is it me, that sad kid?
I'm yearning for the smell of crushed leaves
in parks and in gardens
and for the thundering rumblings of the storm
through the gray Rembrandt-like clouds
over the gasoline rainbow
in a puddle on my street –
the work of a modern, unknown painter.
But mostly I'm longing
for the silence that follows
as well as for the bright eyes
of the lovers
at every crossroad,
on every street in my old town –
which I fondly remember.