Mourning

On this rainy afternoon while I walk alone the streets the music that my shoes make on the wet asphalt sounds to my ears like a funeral symphony and my walk like a dead march.

Casually raising my eyes to the mountain in front me I notice that the white cloud which in the morning was kissing the mountain is there no more.

So, I say to myself; ‘these wet drops falling are not the rain drops, they are tears of the mountain for the death of that white cloud’.

Mourning for this death I continue my walk not feeling the wetness on my shoulders and my feet.