Drifting

Chi Tori

When the sound of the fan Becomes nothing but none As the whispers dissolve To a sea of silence, The hateful rain becomes a melody Of tears and sorrows. It touches every roof, Knocking each heart to open. But without a hope, it flows down And the humble soil seeps it. The murmurs and the groans of clouds As they rub each other to sleep The moon peeks behind them To see if lovers have went deeper in the woods The dew chills their warm bodies And they sang as the creek carried the songs of the rain While Im here in my room writing, Trying to dance with the sounds of the 19th Century Europe When Nee-sans phone rings The ring tone becomes nothing but its music box version My world temporarily rests When the sound of the fan Becomes nothing but none.