Soul, you are a street, leading into rain
from the outskirts full of dry leaves:
it is more humid closer to the central plaza—
I am a paving block and slipperiness.
Between the tight boulders the water
weakly beats, like the rataplan
of an injured regiment—the grass
and leaves of past warm years hide there.
The quieted footsteps will not disturb us:
the nervous race has all but fully spilled
and hidden in the suburbs—now we are here alone.
I feel a latent growth.
It lengthens among the rocks and waits
for the arrival of the first ray;
then the stem having grabbed the sun
grows into us, into the peopleless hum.