A nocturne played on gutter flutes —
What strange desire, and yet, it calls.
The rain, instead of lips or lutes,
Confesses love as twilight falls.
It sings of sorrow, longing, grace,
Of dreams unmet, of silent ache.
Each drop becomes a soft embrace,
A chord the heart can barely take.
To play such music, raw and true,
On rusted pipes with breath divine —
Who else but God could thread it through,
Where love and hatred intertwine?
Now hush, now swell — a final phrase,
A trembling note, then silence wide.
And all we felt, in rain’s last blaze,
Has vanished with the springtime tide.
Rain Nocturne
© Copyright: Гемма, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071604779
Свидетельство о публикации №125071604779
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