The fevered rain fell like waves over the city and her bare streets, fell splashing and crashing over her deserted roads. Her gutters gurgled and spat, her sewers overflowed, and in the midst of the roaring thunder, made visible in the frequent flashes of lightning (but made visible to whom?) the bodies were carried away.
As the floods rose and spilled out, the pale, decaying forms floated away. The crows’ and vultures’ feast was finished. They would no longer peck at the unburied bones. The city would be clean; she would be empty.
The rain would end, and her towers would sparkle in the sun, the blood washed away. A rainbow, perhaps, might arch over her, if there were any eye for it to be created in. No, there would be no one left. They would be all washed away.
She would be clean, but she would be empty, an empty city, its history washed away. The rain fell over the city, flooding her streets like rivers. Above, the incomprehensible shouts of heaven boomed. No one heard; no one saw anything in the flashes of lightning. She would be clean; she would be empty.
Tale Told 