Words | Sara Zarriello
A grey permeated shield covers the sky,
made of crackling metal.
Only slivers of light illuminate
the ageing tiles,
covering a balcony somewhere.
The balcony slightly slants as if it is reaching for the earth,
trying to pull away from its house.
Palms dance behind a slender column,
its once white paint itching to peel off.
Its veins popping through, reflecting the long years it’s endured.
But the tall trunks home to the palms swaying higher above,
look longingly into the sky.
As it says, “Give me your rain”
the sky calls back, many whispers in the distance,
“I will, I promise you.”
And so the leaves prance and the roots sway,
as the flowers sing to the sky,
“More” and the sky blooms.
A melody begins, a tune struck up.
A rhythm measured, not a beat gives up.
As sky howls to its children,
the rocks remain rocks and the light flashes ever soft,
While the sky rings its tune out higher and louder.
As its children dance below,
looking up to itself in awe.
And then the gutters yawn as the last drop falls,
and all in all,
those ageing tiles under those veining columns,
on the slanting balcony,
admit their fall.