Either the wind was too rough, tearing clouds to shreds,
or now, filled to capacity, the cup overflowed,
as the wipers vainly scrubbed off the reds
of the bright traffic lights that continued to glow,
but the downpour was sudden and unrelenting –
all sounds were drowned by the artillery on the glass,
and struck by the beauty of it, lamenting,
I whispered to no one: “This, too, shall pass.”
The vista’s too large for memory’s keeping,
and the aperture of the eye, is, itself, too small
and, for no good reason, I started weeping,
helpless and vulnerable to it all.