Come, let us listen to the rain.
All that we had is going—
or already gone,
just like a life,
so intimate and incomprehensible.
The night has no more songs.
What will it sing
now that the moon has drowned
and the song birds with it.
And our dreams have been stolen
by the hunger of men travelling long distance,
like bats in the dark.
Soft fruit, flesh, blood.
There is a war and directly now
it must be about guns, metal, dust
and the fear that climbs the trees every night
when our names are written
without will or favour in the present,
watching the frailty of our lives
spilled in the blood of these hills
right before our disbelieving eyes.
Yes, the rain is pouring down on my homeland.
The old men are saying they can see
fields of darkness and fields of light.
One day, they say, the wind will sing
songs of slaughter, and tenderness.
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