Rain

Walid Alzoukani – Syrian Poet

The rain, resembling old coins,

tinkles 

beneath the dome of my high poverty.

It rubbed the goat of the night 

with myth

and placed its wet finger

on the lips of the sorrowful horizon.

It kissed the fingers of the rose 

to open her eyes.

The rain, rolling on the shy windows,

bleeds laughter,

piled beneath my window,

entered my heart,

which is poorer than a tree,

 without permission.