Chinese rain

Somewhere, next to the rice fields
and the bamboo grove it began
to rain down, big jade-green drops.
Winding streets leading me to the far east.

Soaked travelers may pass farmland,
crowded by water buffalos plowing,
and preparing the fields for the sowing.
A toothless peasant ogles over here.

Chinese rain, and its smell all around.
Karstic mountains towering in the distance,
just disclosing their silhouettes behind a wall,
of dense fog and heavy monsoon clouds.

Along the road a Mao-statue peels itself,
out of the haze, pointing at a Coke-Ad.
A receding memory of a once glorious time,
enwrought by a new revolutionary idea.

And next to the billboard, a little bit lost,
a tattered veteran sells some medals and stuff.
I take a step closer. Agony of choice. I choose
the Hello Kitty umbrella - preparation for more
Chinese rain.