Just (Between The Raindrops)

Between the raindrops I can see a woman standing there. She looks lost, hope drained from her eyes. She has this crazy body, it isn't hard to see through her tight clothes, a shirt, small jacket and tight skirt, with heels. Just standing there in the rain. She isn't a hooker, she is smartly dressed, and there is a very good reason for her sadness. She finally found out the truth. She found out what many of us are searching for. Now, she is stood there, motionless, sobbing, her tears just more droplets of tragedy added to the world and its water.

Each raindrop (and the tears) falling is a man that died at war, needlessly. Each drop is a symbol of lost hope, of hurt, of what has vanished forever, and still she stands there. There is no way of avoiding the raindrops. There is no way out. The sound of the rain is the battle, the war, raging all around us, crashing on the roofs and gutters, bouncing off the street and trees, slapping at the windows.

She stands there, at her end, knowing why it all happens. Watching the raindrops, wishing somehow she could move between them. She is soaking wet, she knows all the answers, and there is nowhere to go. People came along and asked her what was wrong, what they could do to help, if she was okay, and still she sobbed, speaking no words to them. Before long, and after several people had given up, she herself understood the magnitude of the task - avoiding the raindrops - and having been there so long, motionless, with just the stream of seemingly neverending tears pouring from her eyes, she turned to stone. There she remained as a weeping statue.