For you, dear friend
ending
this long drought
with
rain the colour of
wine
(whose name I can’t
pronounce)
will
all be in vain, don’t
you
think? For
what’s
the use of a
neat
row of red tulips,
a
field of poppies, or a
thick
bush of roses,
if
you won’t be there to
pick
and smell them
if
you won’t be there to
hand
them to the crying child
longing
for your return
if
you won’t be there to
realize
that,
that
child is you?