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Thunderstorm

By Abrahim Harb

Mother—
why are you so enraged.

enraged and irrational;
and we did nothing—
You woke me up
and no longer can I sleep.

Hush—
your loud roar;

Slow—
your lapping wind;

Calm—
your flashing signal;

Did we upset Him,
and you are the punishment?

Cease, your tapping on the window—

I sit,
listening,
patience wearing weary;

Boom,
the wind
grows tired.

Gasping one last breath,
releasing it's last gust of wind—
as the rain recedes.

It's gone,
for now—