Here come the clouds
The smell of rain on the pavement, and the grass
Here comes the time
To run toward a dry
place, dodging raindrops under a
shitty newspaper above our heads
Here comes the subtle dance
of the cowards watching
living and enjoying
the beauty of life through
a broken stained glass window.
Here comes the end and its smell
faking the scent of freedom tales
our only greatness: Leaving.
Moun ki won pa fouti vini kawé.