It’s pouring, lashing.
Looking out of the window, I say:
What a mercy of God it is:
All the orange, all the beans!
The soil is thirsty.
However I put up my shoes,
Jumping over puddle and puddle,
Running on my pitch in the mud,
Then, walking in hurry on the road.
The houses, the roofs are crying,
They make little rivers and waterfalls.
The men of the road blow cloud,
It’s the sign of the cold,
Though, the women are in tight dress,
Robes and high-heels on some,
They make funny the foggy scene,
By acting so contradictory.
Men are like watered cats,
Throwing their legs up the sky,
Making puffs of vapour in hurry;
While women, like heavy machines,
They stop longly before each water,
And hesitate like steamboats.
However, the crowd is one,
One nation of colorful umbrellas,
That awkwardly clash time to time,
But they move along together.
I hold none of their colour,
I’m just watching eyes.
I witness the rain,
With my whole body,
With the holes of my shoes;
Cold neck and frozen toes:
Though, I keep saying:
What a mercy of God rain it is!