As rain storms the scorched earth,
Extinguishing the rage
Of its natural enemy.
Gutting the mind of one,
Blackening the hearts of many,
Weakening the structure’s soul,
Lending a quick revelation to
The eighty-odd’s dying faith.
Never destined to flash forth flame,
All consuming less and less,
Until, seventeen small, blue-grey spirals
Drift silently and separately away.
The Mother, seeing the miscarriage
Of her own making, reflects and weeps.
The voice of retreating thunder
Echoes across the ashen plain.