Παρασκευή, 3 Απριλίου 2015

Rain



The afternoon has brightened up at last
  For rain is falling, sudden and minute.
 Falling or fallen. There is no dispute:
Rain is a thing that happens in the past.

Who hears it fall retrieves a time that fled  
When an uncanny windfall could disclose
To him a flower by the name of rose
  And the perplexing redness of its red.

Falling until it blinds each windowpane,
Within a suburb now long lost this rain  
Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside
A certain patio that is no more.  

A long-awaited voice through the downpour Is from my father. 
He has never died. 

 Rain - By Jorge Luis Borges

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