At the start of the walk  the fly
Danced around a pugilist nose
In clear geography of a gray sky
 With no rain, only a promise.

It seems raining in the other sky.
Will the clouds turn rain like flies?
In the sky is a swarm of doubts
That will  soon  turn flies, only flies
Buzzing around a walking nose.

But now the sky is the other sky.
And as I reach the end of the walk
The nose fights silver rain like flies.