The House

The whining sal trees with their runaway leaves
Lie vulnerable to the onslaught of furious drops
Of rain, the tears of those who never got to cry out
While in the realm of earthly existence, upon hell.

Their groans, whether of tormented souls or trees
Cloak to perfection, the raised voices in the house
Soon even the whiplashes drown in the chaos
Of the tempest outside, the tempest within rages.

Bitterness refined to pure loathing, black as the night
Spotted with crimson drops of blood, on her white back
As shackles of all civility shatter to smithereens
Outside, the sal trees, in green robes, weep.