Prophets swelter in box houses
And beg rains to return.
Water our lives with gully washers,
Hammer galvanize roofs relentlessly,
Beat without mercy on
Mishappen slopes of umbrella beaches
Till we beg forgiveness for our collective sins—
For sinned we have
And sin we do, unmistakably:
When the lone child is droned out
Of the last broken city,
When our neighbour’s livity
Shreds, shreds and flutters,
Soaked rags, soiled and sodden,
Round our remorseless boots.
Our revelries still ring out,
But (oh, rain!) unleashed vibrations only
Shatter the thin stalks of Moko Jumbies.
(They point their gracious ululations
To the One Healer,
But who strains to hear?)
Oh, Heaven rain!
Let torrents in the mountains
Shock dry rivers into whirling dervishes,
Let even the astonished sea be astonished!
Let loose fabric of the forest
Unravel
And boulders bolt like unleashed monuments
Down riversides for our collective resurrection,
Our collective rebirth.
Rain, rain!
Our anger now evades its own reach,
Hatred has loosed a vampire
Of thin ancestor-worship,
And our voices can no longer
Teach any “Our”
Father.
Let it rain, do.
For our holy chants are now howls,
While thin reed voices simper,
“Rain, rain, go away and do not come another day.”
They seek to drown down singers
With their converging and relentless laughter.
It sounds and resounds like drought.
Oh, Heaven, rain, do.
And then rain….