(A poem dedicated to my friend, The Viento)
He wrote a piece about the rain,
when it was still afar.
His voice wasn't heard,
o'er the din of the lives,
of the great mean walking past.
Thus silenced he spoke no more,
and went away to an unknown land.
Come monsoon came no one,
to welcome it that year.
There was no one to sing its praise,
to shed a handful tears.
And then the people,
unable to write,
in the praise of the rain itself.
Wrote in the praise of the man who was,
lost in the rain,
a true son of rain herself.