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Poem

the rain,
like melted grain
of ice
to be,
that, maybe,
loving will be we,
or, maybe, not,
but it just falls
in the gray day
of the wet fall.
the rain,
that we all must obey,
be it the morning or the day,
hoping, it will, will go away
some time, some evening
or some day.
the rain,
a paint 
of many hues,
the chance
to win or just to lose,
and to forget
with some regret.
but... let it rain,
please, let, 
please, let.
Ivan Petryshyn

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