On the battleground of the common streets,
inside the city walls where bombs have dropped,
bodies of children were scattered about
while the rain battered upon them
like a hail of bullets showered from heaven
to mop away the anguish and blood,
helping to calm the nerves of those who are still alive,
to silence the crying children.
In war, I am trembling among the dead,
crouching and whimpering prayers as a soul
without shelter, while the rain keeps battering on,
taking the blood with it to the stream,
putting rage in its proper burial ground,
forgiving and forgiving.
In the rain I'd stand listening to the sound of my own
weeping,
reminding myself of how I had feared and how I had survived the war.
In it, it's either you or me, your children or mine.
Who will be left among the ruins to pick up the pieces and bury the dead?
Chath Piersath
Copyright © 1997 by Chath Piersath