The Time The Clouds Cried With Us

By Safa Mahmood

I was neck-deep in melancholy today . . .

until I heard the clouds above me say

that I am not alone, then drop after drop

they cried with me until I would stop.

Rain replaced the tears on my cheeks,

I can still hear how sweetly it speaks:

(patter) everything (tap) up there (patter)

(tap) is feeling (patter) for you (tap, patter).

When I showed winter my skin,

the many raindrops on my hand felt like pins,

but I liked the momentary numbness

(as I liked the cold wind beneath my dress)

which faded after a rub on my thigh,

and gathered in my heart, came from my eye—

as rain of my own; happy, happy rain . . .

For the resting birds, the hiding plane,

the sleeping child, the trembling mother,

for the youth warmly embracing each other,

the proletariat, the broken-hearted,

for the newly-born, the dear departed.

Everything was pleasant for some time, see,

the weather saved more than a melancholic me

and washed away the filth we carry,

all while singing for us like a canary.

It poured, white against the lights,

ceaselessly through the night,

and down glittering windows it danced,

effortlessly leaving me wholly entranced.

I saw people, some with their limbs bare,

some with their hands over their hair,

some shivering, some stiff as a post;

I wondered who might love this winter the most.

Certainly, my heart was now untroubled,

and with each raindrop my elation doubled.

By Safa Mahmood