Thunder cracks loudly, angrily overhead

As rain storms the scorched earth,

Extinguishing the rage

Of its natural enemy.

Today

Rage ran unbridled,

Gutting the mind of one,

Blackening the hearts of many,

Destroying all.

Two-by-two torched timbers fall,

Weakening the structure’s soul,

Lending a quick revelation to

The eighty-odd’s dying faith.

Sadly, seventeen separate embers smolder still,

Never destined to flash forth flame,

All consuming less and less,

Until, seventeen small, blue-grey spirals

Drift silently and separately away.

Still rain falls,

Soothing the sizzling of the Mother’s skin.

The Mother, seeing the miscarriage

Of her own making, reflects and weeps.

The voice of retreating thunder

Echoes across the ashen plain.

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Written April 19–20, 1993

Like many, I watched the tragedy at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, unfold—a grim reminder of Jonestown in the 1970s, where delusional leaders led vulnerable followers to needless deaths. The title marks the hour the fires began, consuming all, and, with irony, recalls a Biblical verse on the passing of Jesus.