The Tear Carnival (A very short composition)

Would you please give me some opinions on the piece? Please forgive me for my annoyance, for all I have done is to post my own works and to ask for comments, I did not play the role of a true member to raise her voice and hear those of others. But as my deadline to submit those stuffs is coming near, I cannot do otherwise. Thus, when my time allows me to, I would try my best to join the forum in a more positive way.



"The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears." (John Vance Cheney)
Bleak day. Wane light pierced through thick layers of cloud that faded in grey, with my shortened vision failed to attack the heavy mist. The breeze, soothing my serenity with its gentle caress, brought in a mixed scent of newly damped soil. Like fragile ladies, shiny green leaves trembled under each rainy thrash; some dripping water jumped down onto my opened eyes. I felt wet, as sliding drops had crossed my face in a piebald pattern.
It was Tear Carnival when I visited my friend Memory; such a long time had passed that I hardly remember how he looked. The road was decorated with tear placards, with ribbons tied on projecting trunks of evergreen plants. Along my way, tear-like bricks were too rough to compose a smooth pavement; thus, it was jagged and full of turns. Left, right, or straight to the corner by which a tear-painted lady was standing? I asked myself, noticing a man ambling in the opposite direction. Parcels in hands and moisture on cheeks, he would be leaving the fair for home.
"Mister, should you tell me how to go to the fair?" Said me, full of politeness, aiming at whom I guessed would not reject a stranger's request for direction.
"You must be from the East," stopped him to reply in his slow and warm voice. "I see rain on you. Is it alright there?"
I paused for a second to look at myself. In the reflection of a glass window, I could see how the drizzle had sprinkled over my hair tiny crystal shreds, making it moist and glittering like a web of pearly beads. Brightly, the nuance of shades transformed itself with every change in position, the pinch of pale light was dimly reflected via natural prisms, and I seemed to be surrounded by a thousand pieces of rainbow. The man, with patience, put down his parcels to indicate his interest in a long talk.
"The fishermen returned in time, fortunately, and we did not suffer much from human lost. Chanchu disaster did not reoccur." I stated, realizing his implication to the Xangsane typhoon. Xangsane, or Elephant, was the calamity after Chanchu, or Pearl, to hit Vietnam in the South this summer. None of them hit my hometown up north, but provided a balmy and enjoyable temperature to appease the scorching heat dramatically. Dramatically, and tearfully.
Yes, tearfully. Slithering off his eyeball as a snake glided along the slot of a ditch, the trickle seeped as the man lifted up his face and moved it upward to avoid me capturing his moment of weakness. "God did his salvation," whispered him, "or else, this poor territory would have nothing left."
Saying farewell to him after getting full direction, I made my way ahead. Down the alleyway with two lines of plants running in parallel, the coil blew quickly, and the wet windy streams whirled on like a chorus of rustling flutes. As the acclivity sloped up, my footsteps weighted more heavily, colorful flags hanging outdoors loomed before me in the shade of variegated fluctuating blips. Leisurely was I, grateful for a stranger's friendliness and sympathy, thinking of the man's reaction. Two times recently, storms had been the inspiration for my tear drops. Neither was I painful for the lost - the lost itself was enough painful, nor did I cry because of the around weeping vogue. My mind, the still surface of a lagoon not affected by wavering tide in the ocean, simply stirred within me for it own reasons. For two separate reasons, I simply had rainbow in me.
When I reached the destination, the melancholy scenery had reformed. There lied Tear fair in iridescent neon light, with the crowd movement making it erratically sparkle. Boisterous sound pealed all over, and yet some silence invaded my mood. Why tears? The Chanchu time, I cried of a man waiting for his relative's return, as it was how the reporter interviewed him: "Isn't it ridiculous that you don't lose hope?" The time in Xangsane, I cried for a soldier carrying an elderly on his back, so crazy was the gust that they were nearly blown away. Humans, sometimes they deeply hurt, could ever heal the pain like the rainbow adorning the sky after the rain.
A sudden collision pulled me off my mediation. Recalling my job of finding Memory, I asked a woman near by about him. "Memory? He has left already," answered the woman. "If you had come from that way," she pointed to the route I had just passed, "you should have met a man with parcels. You know, he is the only one who carries tears home."