The Rustles of The Autumn Rain

Streets with a pulsating light reflected from mirrors on the rooftops,
Streets with shadows treading as rustling of autumn on the rooftops,
Mounts the morning rails traversing on the roads laid down with leaves
Orange, yellow and brown with the joy of new eves.

Scrambling on the hairs of children born,
Giggling into the giggles of the players,
A soft hand brushes them to reach new lair,
With a carcass worn and torn,
To tell him about his new born.

The rails move through the alleys, the parks, the farms, the squares.
The roads move alongside guiding the shining twin.
To leave them at the seas to explore to the redskin,
Of wet deserts lined with the memories of its kin.
Of chatoyant rooftops built by blazing will within.

A beige overcoat touches the trolley as it bends
With the women resting her child on the rails,
To curl down to caress her ear with
The warm twins ran down by a train, filled with the rain.
And she listens to the voice of her carcass,
Living in the den, clutching her autumn restrain,
Whispering always, to meet them when he hear,
The rustles of the autumn rain.