The Small Rain
in memoriam Vasile Petre Fati
I know the chronicler of the big rain.
For my part, I will write about a small rain,
a rain that’s slipping through your fingers.
A rain like a worthless thing
that you throw away in an empty lot one evening.
A rain like a stray man
hiding so he can’t be seen.
A rain in which I invested my youth,
for which I sacrificed my friends, my lovers
for which I’ve left the house I was born in
and at whose sign I’ll die in peace.
Yes, I’m the faithful chronicler of the small rain,
the rain from the end of the street
the rain made for a single horn
for a single hat.
My fingers are soiled from so much ink
more than all the water this rain will ever have