The autumn rain leaks through the old house’s roof
Chatting all night long.
Light plots in the clouds.
Under eaves on the wall like a scary shadow sleeps the grass.
Instead of a torch light in the window, the wind is whistling
old songs, on and on.
Clouds cry silently.
Down the gutter rain drops rhythmically recalling old times passed by.
Through the open windows legends run out in the darkness.
And the night is so solemnly quiet.
Who knows?
Will the sun ever return under the eaves of an old house?