 |
| On a rainy Friday in a park in the suburbs. . . The clouds were gray, the sky was blue; the sun hid her pretty head. It was the day, somehow they knew; that soon they'd all be dead. The wind was cold, the rain was warm; it was invented at your birth. The tale's been told, there was a storm; that swallowed up the earth. The children cried, the grown-ups screamed; their losses would be grieved. And as they died, the things they'd dreamed; became the things that they believed. |
| Friday |
|
 |
 |
 |