On the roof is the sound of rain.

The street lights dim,

the night begins to dawn.

The beaten-down path

is trodden and worn,

just like the citizens of the town.

Found in the town

is a bucket of rain.

People’s faces are worn

and hopes grow dim.

It is a long, hard path,

long way to dawn.

As the morning starts to dawn,

a norm of the town

is to follow that old and traditional path,

to the place where it has no rain,

nor dreams that dim.

Yet chains and shackles are still worn.

Old scars, always worn,

since the dawn

of their life that will later dim.

This town,

full of the rain

And tears of past lives that overflow the path.

That dusty, old path,

trodden and worn,

glazed with rain

and muddy at dawn.

A heavy fog meets the town,

The candlelight begins to flicker and dim.

Now again, the lights dim,

the long path

leads to a different town,

where the citizens are not worn.

Hope is allowed to dawn,

And there is never rain.

But that is a distant town. Here, the spirit becomes dim.

No more dawn, just the dusty path,

whose significance is worn down, to something no bigger than a drop of rain.