Hurrying home under this city sky,
Grey and tight whistling harder to the rain,
Bothered by the bluring dust, I only see blown faces.
But my ear itched at the whisper,
The eyes followed, then, this man.
(His face like a child’s wanting his name to be called out loud,
Waiting, perhaps, for the wind to blow a motherly tone,
dressed out in a worn out suit, colours unused.)
Closer, I faced him, saw his eyes
(gentle eyes)
his name
(a calling name)
a little wind blowing, kissing my face.
