Gaza

The sky is a canvas of soft, exhausted grey, Holding its breath at the close of the day. No storm comes shouting, no thunder tears the air, Just a vast, heavy silence, a quiet, deep despair. Then the first drop strikes the asphalt, a dark, sudden bloom, Breaking the tension of the gathering gloom. It's followed by thousands, a drumming, hushed and fleet, Washing the dust from the sidewalks of the street. The window pane trembles beneath the silver flow, Each streaking line a story the wind seems to know. The scent of wet earth rises, a promise, sharp and cool, As the world outside submits to the mercy of the pool. For a moment, all motion but the falling is gone, A cleansing of chaos from dusk until the dawn. And we, inside the stillness, are offered a soft space, To listen to the rhythm of time in this quiet place.