It rained today, a cold gray sky. The air feels pure and clean even in the city. It also rains in Afghanistan. It rains on the terrorists and on the children bent over the Koran. I know, in time, the rain will wash away the blood. I do not know, I cannot think how they see the rain now, or if they see it. I do not think they see how much higher its origin is than books called sacred. In the West, we also bury our heads in a book; I do not know how many will lift their heads to see. God knows the gleam of rain and the drip of its voice is intense. Do they not hear its painful beauty in the dark just before sleep? I am commanded by rain and by a thousand such voices daily. I know the gleam of it must come to the most hardened and lost soul, but how many ages hence? It rained in Babylon thousands of years past, not much, but how many drops of heaven do we need? I pray for rain, and for eyes that see.