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As it flows, dripping, from the skies,

It reveals our true souls.

They say beauty is skin deep.

Perhaps this is so.

Perhaps not.

Wet hair, plastered on your face,

Loose clothes clinging.

I can see your true form, beneath

All your conceits.

One woman, as petty as her

toy poodle, is frantically

running, running, running.

In the dry, she will walk sedately and elegantly.

Another, a student, walks slowly, hunched.

Under his coat are hidden precious books;

They are safe, so he does not feel his lips

turning purple.

And her.

Unburdened, she twirls, tongue outstretched to catch rogue droplets,

Born a child again.

If there lives a man who can remain unexposed in the rain,

Well then,

Let me meet him, for he must not be human.

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