The city rain blurs my window,
as I sit caged at work -
Back home, the rain fell different:
still wet, still damp, but alive -
the downpour's song, my mother's voice,
steam curling from our tea -
a warmth that sustains memory.
still wet, still damp, but alive -
the downpour's song, my mother's voice,
steam curling from our tea -
a warmth that sustains memory.
Same rain, same ache,
but only one place taught the sky
how to feel like home.
but only one place taught the sky
how to feel like home.