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A.P. Warsama

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The rain of ashes

Somehow the wind began to blow,
Calmly, as to serve a purpose marked,
As to unveil a sordid plot.
Like demons endless stresses, it sailed
Throughout the air gently rising,
A shady smoke from the piles of ashes,
Covering the beautiful blue sky,
With black, dark smoking wrecks,
Turning the sun to a grey shade,
Travelling, following the rhythm of the wind,
Spreading further, hither and thither.
Miles away, upon the roofs of quiet cafes,
The bridges, the rivers,
And the graveyards quarter.
The multitude dust not even spared,
The splendid cathedral of white marble.
Where ever it reached, confusion and panic
It has created, followed by a wave of fear.
Nights and days it has rained continuously.
Ashes and smoke powdered over all,
Above, under and round every side.
The sun rose and set without rest.
Months and weeks and days go past.
Distressed, a few anxious faces appear,
Finding no better ease in bed or out,
Silently crying in the street with dirt,
Carelessly walking among the corpses,
Their hearts racked…

 

Page(s) 82

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