A year full of words

The beating rain

The beating rain

I watched the rain patter down.

I heard the thunder roll.

I felt the humidity against my skin.

It hadn't rained in my village for years. Now the rain had finally arrived.

Our crops, which had withered and shriveled, were thriving with the powerful rain beating down heavily on them.

The village women had set out containers to store some water away for if the dry season came again.

I missed those times. When everything was simple and enjoyable.

When my people used to play with rocks rather than use them to spill the blood of unknown men.

The ground has cracked and our mouths are dry these days.

The women no longer collected water.

Instead they sat around to tired to do anything, as the sun dried their skins making them look like prunes.

The rain stopped years ago.

It was no more beating down on our crops.

They had withered and died leaving us with nothing to eat.

Now the only beating left was the sound of war drums, and the sticks and stones that spilt the blood of foreign men.