Empty house

(‘Casa goala’ by Adrian Paunescu, he was a Romanian poet, journalist and politician, 1943 – 2010; this is my interpretation from original)

Wasn’t gonna open up about this rain
It just is likely, in an empty house,
All of my chest feels big and crouse
While my back already folds in pain.

Thou I wasn’t gonna share, it’was told up,
By my mouth, this simple but full truth,
Miss you by my side like a sweet tooth
For always, my religious death cup.

And when it pours, the rain’s my cover,
It helps my closing down, as if a gate,
Under this sea of brownish sky’s fate,
To keep on seeing you, my quiet lover.

I figure then this rain is crying
As world is doomed by bloody lighting.

 

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