”It was pouring insane, we were making love in the attic,
It was March, and outside in the rain clowds were flowing erratic.
Inside the room, walls stirred from within under quiet white paint,
Our souls dancing unseen
In a world of constraint.
, you told me,
, I’d reply can’t you see,
feathers will rain on my flight>.
And I was raising above, like a dancer,
forgetting my room on the ground.
You were calling at me: <answer, please answer,
Who is more beautiful: the rain or the crowd?>
It was pouring insane, we were making love in the attic,
I was wishing that March and the rain won’t ever end,
rain so fanatic…” Nichita Stanescu