Why, rain, do you hit me hard?
My sorrow didn’t ask for it.
Your drops can leave your business card
instead of slashes full of peat.
Why is your water dipped in scorn?
Each oblique stroke‒improper wrath,
a proper fraction’s ruined, torn,
where every second means one fourth.
Why does your lightning seem so loud
when its whisper cuts my eyes?
And every tear is a scout,
slides down the eaves with butterflies.
Come, silly rain, in my soul
and wash my veins with your blood.
Don’t leave a single dirty mole,
Take off my heavy layer of mud.