Rain heavily going on
here,
grey in the north.
South is the light blue.
In the middle I don´t trust in the rain.
I think it´s superstition.
(But it rains)
And I´m safe.
If I wasn´t I´ll be delighted too.
The rain it passes.
Quiet and harmful, the clouds.
But they don´t touch the south.
The south is free!
And I don´t know if the wheat is cresting there.
But what if to imagine
that´s a place to sit
the spirit.
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