An eighth floor terrace gathers wind to yield a storm
A brisk blow, callously covers the surface
I revoke my presence, but I do not despair
The terrace will catch the sun next morning
The morning sun will not drift astray
Then a morning resolves into parts of day
The day of sunrise meanwhile hides away
I look forward to the moment, but I await it elsewhere
Raindrops fall down, yet not against my window
Rather they shatter into silence underneath
I silently sustain, but I will no longer be the same
JdR. Podcast 