it’s not just the weather you

hate about my country, I know

the colours of mud & indifference

the heavy skies, too little fun yet

too-much-meaning-people, nation

of loneliness and contempt

hostility as a hobby

constant reek of self-important

men with sagging

cheeks, their poems shaping

the last century like wooden

bars on both sides of a broken shin

and then the cold, the rain and

the harsh rules that made us who

we are; clouded is my second name

I’m used to gardens that were not

allowed to touch each other, I grew

up among men trying to be funny

and sometimes succeeding

I grew up wearing sunglasses, I grew

up collecting lizard’s tails, I grew up

annoyed with apparently not enough

hardship in my life—I grew up for you

to find me, I guess, between rain barrels

listening to the noise of wet heavens

gushing over my face, washing it

away, I grew up to meet someone

who didn’t know me before, so I would

have to explain myself

and let the raindrops talk instead