I walk bare foot,With a gusty wind trailing.On the thin grey pathScattered among the pebbles.I let my feet pick pace,For the bereaved skies Have summoned the cloudsTo mourn over its stillness.The first drops have startedTo patter over the tin roofsI must soon fetch solace,In a kind villager's hut.I cover my head with my bagBut fear it will get wet.Inside it I had lain The work I had done for days.The yellowed parchmentsI had dirtied to blue with ink,In a doubtful attempt to Make some sense.

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