Of this world

of this world
of this traitor...
...of this traitor I am
proud of him, proud to be
of this being, of this rain
cold, tender, a stranger's kiss
of this night that brightens
in the glimmer of a promise
that always the doubt
the doubt, always
on the skin, like a rain
cold, tender, a lying dream
and from the lip hangs the drop
ephemeral, and proud to be