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Untitled MAG

By Anonymous

   

Great torrents come splashing down.

Like endless tiny drums,

they beat on him.

I see him now.

Walking as he always does:

in the rain.

He says it's like music to him.

Gentle flutes for the little drops,

Sometimes cymbals for the larger ones.

Walking as he always does:

in the rain.

He says it mingles with his music.

He listens as he walks,

James Taylor, mostly.

Singing with the symphony of drops.

Like a lullaby,

Soft,

Drowsy,

Complete.

The rain is ending, and he is now gone.

Home now,

To me.





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