Drizzle

Drizzle, as rhythmic as ever,

Like a lullaby of yesterday’s fairy tales,

My mum used to tell me before I turned in.

Drizzle, it murmurs to me,

Like an old friend, a guardian

So passionate yet so tender is its susurration.

Drizzle, tell me have you changed?

Do you still nourish languished souls?

Do you still tell stories to estranged sons?

As far as I’m concerned,

Your scent doesn’t change.

The mixture of hometown’s soil and folklore still perturb me.

I’ve seen death.

Death of love, faith and youthful dream.

During my exile to foreign soil.

Only you are still there, faithfully and dutifully.

Call my name,

And be a part of me, when death disillusions me.

Can’t everyone see you?

Why there is always people turn their backs to your call?

Can’t they smell your scent, which is well-blended with melancholy hometown’s soil?

But, now, it’s not my concern.

I’m overcome with joy.

Joy that rhymes with your gentle percussions.

So great to see you once again.