Embroidered Names

The rain is a silver needle, stitching tram faces,
metal visages whisper names long lost.
Each drop marks a letter of time,
and on the glass reappears a watery signature.
The passengers pass by, but they do not forget
the names return, etched in the cold reflection.
The city listens, keeper of time’s embroidery,
until the echo of those names fades away.