At the corner of such a dark long street
on such a cold rainy night
There's always someone passing by
in a hurry, holding an old black umbrella,
the back whitened by the rain
as page after page of dusky askew poetic lines
weaved by time.
I always feel you are still somewhere waiting for me quietly,
So at the corners of each muddy long street
I have to slow down my pace gradually
to look back into the depth of the rain very light.