Rain For A Barren Land

Father says

The war will end tomorrow.                                                                                                    Tomorrow.

I walk down the street of shattered concrete

and broken glass.

Smoke drifts through the air,

and from it

white doves scatter into the sky.

The martyrs lie where they fell.                                                                                              Father says

Martyrs go to heaven.

Heaven.                                                                                                       

I refuse to believe

such a place exists.

There is no land left

to bury the dead.                                                                                                                     The land is barren.

I let my tears fall

so they become rain                                                                                                                 to this barren land.