the lungs of the sky strobe white to blue
ruptured, they thunder
rain scatters suddenly
and the aromatic oils of plants and trees
rise heavenly

so here, I turn my eyes to Kosovo
the battering shattering fearsome sky
I see the Swede - they called him Stalin -
beating the blood from beaten men.
Pausing briefly, a priest interrupted in his solemn liturgy,
Stalin eyes the heavens suspiciously.
As the clamorous call of his ancient god  
is fading from the valley,
he returns again to his sacred rite
cracking skulls with industry

disgust moves me on again
to the waves of rain in Monrovia
we are naked, dancing in the lightning storm
we are shameless,
all except for Scorpion
who sits, slicing a machete through coconut shells.
Eyes yellow, he says
you should not mock the storm
it is the waiting fury
for those who killed