Drip, Drip.. every second Eyes flutter open, greeted with Heavy rain pouring down Each drop meets the ground, From a teardrop of the clouds To a small puddle Sheltered with a roof over my head, giving a view of the once creamy clouds now turned into the color of a chimneys fog, Sobbing their hearts out They cannot talk, speak Yet, The impact making things Drenched in their drops Look ahead, the bus Has not arrived yet, maybe Impatient, or late I tug onto the edges of my striped cloth, the only shelter from the chill beside the transparent roof, similar to one of a greenhouse The city is quiet, the clouds sobbing loudly being the only sensory, maybe it scared the bus off So I wait on the wooden seat, huddled with my jacket — as I watch the view of nearby objects and vegetation drenched with the tears of the clouds 'Oh, why must you cry now?' A question I yearned to ask to the clouds. They have no reason to do so To provide growing of crops, of course that is! Yet why the time when I try to find my way home? My sacred area, while I wait under this bus stop.