Sometimes, I feel like
a cat out in the rain.
A big black and white Tom just
trotted by;
ears back, trying to avoid
the puddles.
Is he angry at the
world; maybe a little sad too?
Was he led away from
his domestication by
his drive and desires,
only to return to
a locked door and
no more love?
Or was he born on
the streets-never held,
Were the elements all
he knew?
It's a dog-eat-dog world,
kill or be killed, and this
old boy is still alive.
I don't have the
answer to this feline's
follies,
but I do know this,
sometimes,
I feel like a
cat out in the rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem