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The Ire of the Persian Sun
I thought it was the ire of the Persian sun
but it snatched the pencil out of my hand,
scorched my books, and burnt the ground
on which I stand.
I thought it was the sound of thunder -
it must be a promise of rain for the rose.
It shook the walls around me,
the ceiling above me,
and the ground beneath me
moved in any and every direction it chose.
It traded the sound of sirens for silence.
It ended as fast as it began.
But the damask roses are too torn to feel it
and too young to understand.
