He likes those days,
When the clouds are coming,
In the city,
He likes those days.
When the raindrops form,
In front of his window.
Thousands raindrops,
Morphing and falling three hundred storeys down,
In the sticking filth,
In the everlasting fog of the old city,
He likes those days.
He likes when the clouds are coming.

An older poem recycled.