He was spitting furiously. Everything - wet: the trees, the cobblestones, the city ... Outside, everything alive was running under a roof. And only they stood in the rain. Imported. Taken away. Restless. Two hot rays in the wet ball. In all probability homeless, but sheltered in his love. The old umbrella spread out, I passed them, I looked at them in blood. And I secretly sighed, "Ah, until yesterday I was also raining like that ... " Tucked dry upstairs in his room, I shot them through the rain glasses: two wet birds chasing a tram, homeless, but having infinite ... And it rains from my pupils.