Everything ends when it rains.

This I know.

We can paint a field brilliant red,
streaked in tar and bile and bits,
but when the sky tears itself to shreds
and releases its fury in torrents and fits-
the evidence is drained.

When it rains.

We can ripen our quarrels for years on end
with hot irons and sharpening stones,
but it’ll all mean nothing when the floods descend
to quench our fury with thunderous moans-
there’s nothing more to show.

This I know.

For everything ends when it rains.