The Storm That Did Not End

There once was a brutal storm that raged for ten long years.
Valleys all but forgotten under the mourning of its tears.
Mountains were then islands lit by flashes in the roar,
Few hundred dead when it awoke, then many, many more.

Endlessly the hunger and the cold did take its tax.
Insanity and blindness, deafness between cracks.
But as the weeks turned to months, and on and on ad naus,
More than a few figured it out, bereft of any cause.

There were many stubborn roots growing in angry soil,
Mould and moss hiding in nooks, pressed in hand to oil.
Anyone smart to these having overhang or cave,
Or found the rare peak tall enough to partial daylight save.

Over the years sharp misery faded to daily ache.
No one prayed, but still all dreamed of sunshine on the lake.
Of fields of grain, of quiet moon, the salt sweet taste of bread,
The oranges of a setting sun, the softness of their beds.

In the final years the rain was a good measure less dense.
The sideways sheets of punishment, a meandering dispense.
When the momentous moment came, when the gods lifted their heads,
The shock was overwhelming, clouds pierced with holy thread.

Over the next half year or so the valley drained in whole,
The rejoicers came singing down, with fire in their soul.
Reunions were not common, but joyously were found,
Transition would be difficult, but for tomorrow they were bound.

Unfortunately it was, that soon, their joy would turn to dust.
It seemed that more than a few children were born to the gust.
Infants who only ever knew the scream of wind and rain,
Grew into adolescents to whom the sun brought only pain.

A language of short yelps and patterned touches on the arm,
A ghastly pale complexion that the sun would flake and harm.
They climbed around off balance on all fours towards the shade,
Moaning mad songs of gibberish they didn't know they made.

Of course when it was first discovered, everyone stepped in -
But this impossible rehabilitation wore them thin.
The mothers cried alone at night, their shaking muted slow,
People wouldn't say a thing, but through their eyes you'd know.

Eventually there was one that might be called a success.
Could walk and talk and hear a bit, despite all of its stress.
But when it came to trying to live a normal, farm-full life,
Others couldn't work with it, too strange for daily strife.

And so the day inevitable, that the seasons couldn't hide,
Arrived with the full force of folk that just wouldn't abide.
Time to end this sharp reminder of their tragedy,
So they put a noose around its neck, hung it from a tree.

As the years went on and on and on and on ad naus,
Pain turns generational, segregation becomes law.
And now, though none remember why, in darkness and with pains,
The people come to kill their kin, every time it rains.