When Thunder Tried to Speak

The child drifts into sleep
while the world trembles.
Rain writes restless verses on the glass,
lightning stitches cracks into the sky,
and thunder unfurls its heavy throat
as though to say—
I am here. Do you hear me?

But the child only curls deeper into the quilt,
breathing slow,
trusting the storm like a mother’s hum,
not knowing it is loneliness that roars,
not fury, not wrath.

The storm sighs into rafters,
its voice breaking against rooftops,
its sobs running wild through gutters.
It has never learned how to speak gently.
Every bolt of lightning is a reaching hand,
every clap of thunder a plea
for someone to name its ache.

I do not mean to frighten you,
the storm whispers into the child’s dream,
I only wanted to be heard.
I only wanted someone to understand
that even the sky can feel empty,
that even clouds can drown in their own silence.

The rain leans closer,
a thousand fingertips tapping lullabies,
and the thunder softens into a heartbeat.
The storm bends itself around the child’s sleep,
wrapping the house in its arms,
shaking not from rage,
but from the ache of being unseen.

And so the child dreams sweetly,
cradled by the very chaos that
longed for mercy,
rocked to sleep by a language
no one else stayed awake to hear.

- Khushi Kaul