The patter of rain in early spring 
The song of birds being sung 
I’d rather hear then about shootings 
Or many people in sorrow 
For their loved ones killed 
A child’s laughter 
Or an old friend’s voice 
Singing a drunken ballad 
With a gusto no one has seen before 
The silence of night 
With a hopeful moon 
And a shooting star 
Watching 
Wishing the night 
Would never end 
These I pray for every night 
But it seems the is weakened 
With hate 
And only love could pull us through 
As we wait for a miracle 
Our continue to pour out the chalice.

by, LeeAnn Azzopardi