10 AUGUST 1991, Page 33

When I was young I listened to the rain On

the Towers of Song: Red candles glowed through thin gauze curtains, Bedroom curtains, all night long.

In my prime of life, I listened to the rain On the roof of a boat: From the westering wind a wild-goose echoed The exile's anguish dumb in my throat.

Now that I'm old, I listen to the rain On the temple-tiles: Hair flecked with white, I sit and wonder Why meetings, partings, tears and smiles Prove in the end to have had no meaning.

It is nearly day. I sit and listen as the rain's pit-patter On the steps below me dies away.