Rain writes a diary on fallen leaves,
The old man looks at leaden clouds.
Rain will stop just like summer has gone,
But it won’t ever be warm.

Old man will come back to his lonely house,
He’ll hang his rain-coat on tack.
He’ll brush the dust off the record, pour a cup of tea
And remember May which has gone forever.

On tiptoes winter enters the room,
She dots in the end of last line.
Cry of a seagull has faded away over leaden sea,
Tired old man slumbers amid shadows…

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