Terror in the Rain

I cannot explain terror to the rain.
It is unconvinced of anyone’s importance,
Hammers on the doors of the rich and poor
Like an old friend returning out of
Nowhere and demanding entrance,
Where to cries of delight or tears of woe.
Rain is undeterred by our predicaments;
Our lives are of no consequence, for rains shares
Its wonders with us all, some more than others,
But by no cruel feat of pre-planned destruction.
Rain is cold in more ways than one, but
Nothing like the wicked bite of terror.
It stalks each person with a vile intent
To bring them harm when they most need their strength;
The poor it mocks consistently, the rich it bothers rarely;
Terror does not often hammer on the doors of those who
Can eat well, sleep well, and enjoy good health.
So I stand in the heavy rain, observing
A mother shroud her crying baby in a raincoat,
And I hope with every fibre of my being that her children
Will grow to think her broken look of terror
Is just a bad reaction to the rain.

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