As rain on the window leaves echoes in the ear's curvature, sometimes rememberance of past lives rises in the clear water of my laughter, like a stain of rust that can't be washed from a work shirt, or like a thread of black filings moving under water like a fish's tail.

Suffering remains then, I suppose, this way sunk in love, even after love. So patience then, when from your mouth I seek the consolation to turn it again into beauty like this rain on the window.