I have often thought about that little girl,
And how enthusiastically she came up to me,
Hoping to seize my attention,
Praying for more than a fleeting look,
But my watch would not allow for me,
To look beyond her gleaming eyes without sympathy,
And to stare momentarily the gaudy scars of her adolescent audacity.
I thought I knew her story too well,
Like that favourite novel read a hundred times,
Or perhaps a few times more,
So familiar she seemed, so mind-numbing she became,
All so monotonous, all the same.

She grew up quicker than I thought,
And wore the very same watch which I had once bought,
She walked past me and didn’t bother to look,
And left me alone like some boring, old book,
I have a lot of fascinating friends,
And several sought-after acquaintances,
But none come up to me like her,
Yearning for rain on the barren land.