The Silent Assembly of Wandering Umbrellas

The rain washed urgency from the panes,
and on the pavement, a mute congress is held.
No voices, no whispers, only bent rods
and faded canopies, laid like ancient penance.
They are the orphaned umbrellas, guardians of a moment,
forgotten in the hurried oblivion of a flash.

Each one bears the mark of its last battle,
a broken tip, a rebellious shaft,
colors faded by a thousand storms,
mirroring a sky that now does not address them.
From austere black to playful red, a common destiny
binds them in this pause, beneath a faded sun.

They wait impatiently for a wind that will not come,
a human shadow to gather them from the mud.
But their mission is complete, the soul released,
and now they dance in silence, a choir without song.
An ephemeral forest of nylon leaves,
silent witnesses to drops and extinguished haste.