Roman bridges burning down

no hope of spring from town to town.

The seasons cease to change

heard through the grapevine we need rain.

The crops won’t grow, the fields are dry

Nero bows his head to cry

but tears like these don’t quench the thirst

as high priests say, “It could be worse”

though they’ve turned forests into pyres

they say they didn’t start the fires

but we know they’re lying

as we see our sons and daughters dying.

We’ll bury them in shallow graves

so that they might feel feel the rain

if God decides to cry tonight

to give us respite from this fight