Hurrying words and a feverish voice
Could there be a storm brewing inside?
A spray of the evening showers
Lightly wets the face and the arms
The breeze withering the moistness
Not enough to wash away the malaise
A record playing, she quietly listens
A crystal drop at the end of the eye glistens
She hums along, blending with the melody
Gazing at the distant moon in the sky
Recalling the yearnings that have grown intense
Pretentious she cannot be, alone in her house
Her mind still straying, the sleepless soul
Till she sees the sun coming out in the morning
Her whole being, finally surrendering
The eventide goes on, and it does not end.
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