Lament

A red sun rose over the trees,

And I saw the clouds in their rapid march east.

Propelled by the wind as it rose to a gale,

Their black forms did not crawl, but ran.

The howling of the wind grew ever louder,

Until I was sure that the tallest pines would bend and snap

From the force of the sound alone.

At last, the rain came, after a great bolt of lightning cracked the sky,

To open the floodgates of the heavens.

I wept, and the clouds wept.

I cried out in grief, and the winds howled in return.

But it was not in commiseration.

When the red sun rose again,

I saw that the rains and the wind had washed away,

All of the blood, and the remnants of the last battle.

But they did not wash them from me.

The storm was only to block the evidence of this tragedy,

From the view of those who came next.

And I realized, at long last, that I and I alone was the last piece of proof of what had occurred.