.;./.'THE RAIN by: ME.';'/'

There are wet heaven stuck to the roof

of the small barrio chapel's mouth

Beneath it, the heedless children

play with coins, sending clinks

and laugher beyond the gates

Clumped shut with rust

Their tired mother gossip

while hanging out musty clothes to dry

The clouds are still dart

the elders are kneeling

in a small house, filled with the scent

of damp wicks sputtering with flames

Their trembling lips shittiest, thanking for the dry day

and wishing for another

The prayers could be heard from the far fields

where the men swears out loud

while salvaging what is left f the crops

But even they cannot make sense

of the voices, melting hurvedly

Into the softly galloping winds

It is like the sound of crickets

drowning in the swollen riverbanks.