Lamentation 2: God’s Wrath



The heat comes down hard

Pouring ceaselessly

Storming incessantly

The sky, a washed deep blue

The scattered clouds, bleach stains in the indigo hue

A giant hanging ocean

Forming one dome with the green-blue mountains to the horizon

The big road to the east

Snakes its way away into the distance

To merge with the rim of the sky thence

The heat rises from it in choking fumes

Roasting the air to boiling

Everywhere for miles upon miles

To the hills and beyond

The earth is scorched

Nagasaki and Hiroshima after Fat Boy and Small Boy had called

The wiry grasses stand still in the heat of the afternoon

Like soldiers on inspection parade

Hardly anything stirs

The bare trees stand lifeless and forlorn

Their branches reaching out grotesquely

Like the tentacles of giant octopuses

The streams lie dry in idle and lazy coils

Lifeless canals to the sea

Their beds and banks reeking high

With the stink of rotting fish, frogs and tadpoles

The sands gleam and shimmer

Like priceless diamonds and rubies

The rocks sit in silent anguish

Like so many prisoners on hunger strike

Even the birds have long since stopped singing

The quietness is deafening

Every living creature, animals and the birds of God alike

Has since fled

Fled from this wrath of God

Fled to places where life abounds

Whole villages deserted

Man and beast alike taken flight

Leaving behind the spiders and scorpions

In their hiding places and abodes under the rocks

The old madala stares up and out fixedly

As though watching two teams of fiends and angels up there

Playing a game of tug-of-war

He stares at the forlorn white cloud

Sailing steadily and stealthily across the blue sky

The cloud hurries along

Like a business executive late for some appointment

The old man shakes his grey head



And shuffles forward, leaning heavily on his stick

Contemplating the wrath of God

On the land descended

For two seasons now

The sun gets hotter each day

Hotter and hotter

God is warming us

Acquainting us with the temperatures up above

Where we will forever be

In burning hell

In the pool of fire

The little cloud stubbornly drifts on

In its sea of blue sky

To disappear behind the horizon

Forever lost

And with it any hopes of rain

Of survival

Of revival

For without water there can not be life

This once beautiful and lush Garden of Eden

Slowly turning into a lunar landscape

Becoming one incinerated relic

The Dear Father looks down on us

Looks on us with detached amusement

As we pay the price for our rebellion

He jingles the keys to the rain tanks

The golden keys to our survival

Says to Himself: “Not yet”

And goes about his business of superintending over the Angels

Suffer you the wrath of God

My foot

It is drought!


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