by Mori
The golden sun rises and breaks
Filtering across deserted streets
Lighting faces --
Faces that should shine
With youth and joyous contentment
But in reality, these masks
Are livid with fear
Hard with determination
Twisted with longing
Wide eyes peer over broken wood
Walls meant to be impregnable;
And then it rains
The sun does not hide her face,
Nor do clouds mar the
Perfect blue sky
And yet --
This rain of piercing iron
Erases the beauty of dawn
Far more swiftly