Poetry Competition: Tal



It is the season of dew he thinks to himself.

The rich lock their doors and door bells hang to rest:

everyone is indoors.

But he watches the night turn

He watches the moon walk


It is the season of dew.

From a distance the dew approaches like a long lost life

Just when he is about to run away, the dew pats his purple untouched body,

“Hi lost friend”, it whispers: it is that season


The dew caresses the big fenced walls of the rich.

The door bells love this invisible touch:

the dew turns into small goose bumps all over the door bells:

they can’t resist the touch so they, they come.

Little droplets fall to the ground

The dew knows not when to stop


The tall built houses are no where to be seen

The clouds are melting to this touch

The trees that give him shade love the touch too:

So they, they come.

drop pop drop pop: The Dew knows not when to stop


But the street lights

They know better

So they stay wide awake with him


By Diane Musoni

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