It’s a quarter to eight

and, the sun is shy.

Kamikaze raindrops

fall from the sky.

They spatter blood

shed in the streets;

soaked into soils

that can’t grow wheat.

The wails of mothers

drown siren song;

holding babies

who are broken, gone.

The bombs keep falling

like autumn leaves;

shattering lives 

and, breaking trees.

But, raindrops will carry

all that death,

to your shore,

and, across the seas.

Marjan Farzaad

3/16/2026