The distant thunder gives permission to the rain and drops soon chase each other, splashing on the ground, the winner vying to unravel, to explain why God is crying: that a reason has been found for all the suffering, the evil that men do, that they perpetuate, performing in his name, banal or novel, unintended, or meant to, confounded, differentiated, all the same. Do tell me, droplet, share your reason: why the splash? Why you’d disintegrate, leave but a damp, wet spot? So high above us, in the clouds, until you crash? Is it that he no longer cares? That he forgot?
It doesn’t say, and all’s I know, my face is wet. But it will rain again, so don’t give up. Not yet.
