At a signal

We all come to stop briefly;
The red reacquaints us with the rage within,
Silent curses make their rounds.

A waif appears, pulling her knotted hair;
A different red in her eyes,
Of rage again, but justified.

Streams of helplessness part her now black face;
But the streams purge no more,
They trail off at the edges of her parched, broken lips.

Above, the grey urban sky and greyer clouds waltz;
A dance that culminates in little drops,
The rain makes her eyes smile.

A moment on and those eyes burn again;
Realization of a deluge being ushered in,
Existential woes take precedence again.

A hand reaches out, beseeches for a hungry stomach;
The other holds a mangled, plastic tricolor,
While her eyes, they hold the eyes of my mind.

Uneasy I look around, seek familiarity;
Ah, there, in the oblivious eyes around I see green,
And across the crossing, green again, beckons.

So we hurry along;
It's a stampede here,
Some will die, while some others, aren't alive any more.