An inky sky scorched by lightning,
Wind so loud like a wailing woman,
A sad night marked by ill omens—
A knock on the door, nearly muted,
Followed by a scraping against the wood.
“Please,” issues the soft plea,
A ghastly thunderclap following.
The rain pours in heavy sheets,
No soul outside tonight.
“Tomorrow. You can die tomorrow.”
The wailing never stops.