The Waiting

Picking through the rags of hope and anger
anticipation and fear,
I pause to look up at a slate-grey sky
That offers no answers,
no augeries
except a whispered dream of peace.

No prophet, I,
riding on lightning between heaven and earth,
no sword of fire to cut through the knot of confusion.
So instead,
I sit here,
waiting to see
if the Hill of Spring
becomes a burnt city,
and the City of Peace
becomes a warzone.

Two birds circle, just out of sight.
Are they doves,
or ravens cawing for their feast?