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My father said and sat and hand on knee,
“When you grow up and become the author
I know you to be never write passages where
The rain is symbolic of your feelings.”

It was a Thursday in 1993.
I was almost ten.
And despite everything, it was raining outside,
And the passage of time was taking us
-that is, him and me.

My father said and sat and hand on knee,
“You may not believe this, but we have the dragon gene –
No, listen, the dragon gene in our family;
We become old and fiery and fly away.

Then into the mountains we go,
Burdened by the modern world,
Mythical in our disappearance,
Afraid the cliché of rain will extinguish our power

It continued to rain.
The sky poured like it never had before,
And between him and me and all to see,
His hand trembled, and for the first time, I knew why.