Under the sky the arousing timpani of thunder
The Rain's gratings were her curving fingers
Playing the violin of defeat
For all dreams about the deteriorating sun
Buried no strewn flowers, but
Sadness the rain played on old tins
Felt by her it was the triangle
Pouring its tears out
From the deepest hurt heart
To twilight where the day
Closing its black screen
-Sri Wintala Achmad-
