A Prayer for a Downpour

As I transition into 2026, still shadowed by fires from the year gone by—literal and metaphorical—this poem arrived as a quiet reckoning. It began as a personal lament over helpless inaction amid spreading chaos, but it quickly felt larger: a plea for the monsoon mercy we all crave when flames of ignorance, division and anarchy consume the dry and the vulnerable.

I share it as an earnest prayer from the pews of collective repentance.

Photo by Amber Kipp on Unsplash

A Prayer for a Downpour

Woe unto me, I did not do enough to stop the fire.
It fell on us, around us—like cloven tongues of lightning.
The dead, the dry, the weak lit up like hungry pyres
and in a flash grew possessed, unhinged.

The firemen looked amused, not alert, not dutiful;
some even reverent, as the flames wielded power,
drawing blood, cutting asunder sheep, devouring wool.
Where would we run when duty calls the soil’s sons?

As if by assisted fission, the inferno grew monstrous,
and none dared douse it, fight it, shut it off.
Dead, dry, and weak they were—utterly incongruous—
like armed madmen the fires flew crazed across the land.

Untrained, inexperienced, weary yet troubled,
like many I froze, fainted, fumed and did little.
Mustering strength to rise amid ashes and rubble,
I lift my eyes to the heavens for a saving downpour.

What does the downpour mean to you—rain, justice, forgiveness, or something else? I’d love to hear in the comments.

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