The rain is
tapping on my
tent,
There's a gust
of wind from
the Saros Bay,
And I, the
hero of a
novel,
Lying in a
haystack,
During World
War II,
Burning the
midnight olive
oil,
I am
struggling to
live my
novel's plot
Which starts
in a city
And will end
who knows
where
Or when.
