Don't mourn the passing of the rain It blossoms from the green fields around us where children play And count "she loves me, she loves me not" on its petals And where, in its shade, lovers count their unnumbered blessings And each others' charms And where, more slowly, their parents walk and count the mingled years of joy and sorrow Those past and those yet remaining - unknown and uncountable before tears of remembrance again become the rain (Feb 2004) |