The evening's frost melts.
The smell of steak whiffs up.
It's 6 p.m.
The windy days' chilliness,
And now there's a thunderstorm,
Newspapers flying from abandoned lots,
Feet are surrounded by tender leaves.
The play of wind and rain,
The filthy alleys soaking dirty water,
Shattered houses and ancient chimney pots,
At the street's junction,
A bunch of people tapping their feet,
Opening their umbrellas
And protecting their heads,
Avoiding drizzling shower.
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