The rain, resembling old coins,
tinkles
beneath the dome of my high poverty.
It rubbed the goat of the night
with myth
and placed its wet finger
on the lips of the sorrowful horizon.
It kissed the fingers of the rose
to open her eyes.
The rain, rolling on the shy windows,
bleeds laughter,
piled beneath my window,
entered my heart,
which is poorer than a tree,
without permission.
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