So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky <br />of this black August. My sister, the sun, <br />broods in her yellow room and won't come out. <br /> <br />Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume <br />like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, <br />she will not rise and turn off the rain. <br /> <br />She is in her room, fondling old things, <br />my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls <br />like a crash of plates from the sky, <br /> <br />she does not come out. <br />Don't you know I love you but am hopeless <br />at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly <br /> <br />to love the dark days, the steaming hills, <br />the air with gossiping mosquitoes, <br />and to sip the medicine of bitterness, <br /> <br />so that when you emerge, my sister, <br />parting the beads of the rain, <br />with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness, <br /> <br />all with not be as it was, but it will be true <br />(you see they will not let me love <br />as I want), because, my sister, then <br /> <br />I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones, <br />The black rain, the white hills, when once <br />I loved only my happiness and you.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dark-august/
