Hello grandson,
I say at last.
I smile at him
from the greying past.

From his future,
he asks me nice:
Dearest Oma
do spare me lies!

The window dreams,
“The rainy day has come!
I will shine
just like that first time!”

The window pleads,
“O clouds clever!
I beg of you,
make rain gather!”

The window joys,
“Oh thank the weather!
The rain is coming,
I  ´ll be better!”

 The window quiets,
“The rain is dreary…
It is cold,
it makes me weary.”

The window gathers
its wits in place.
The rain has come,
but brought no grace.

A person sights
once rain has passed:
“Window  ´s smudgy,
more so than last.”


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