The land was bare, for miles around,
The sky, an ugly grey
A hint, of the rains that were yet to come.
And the ground was damp beneath my feet
A hint, of the rains that had already come.
The leaves were wet, some dripping even
And a shallow stream had been made.
Yet it was the smell, the smell of the earth
That filled my entire thought.
Because, this petrichor was not one I liked.

For the rains had been rains of blood
And the streams had all been red.
They, who opposed, lay limp before me,
Their eyes rolled into their heads.
And yet, why could I not feel the rush
Of victory, which had always followed the rains.
Instead, I saw the horror here,
Of all that I had done.
I fell to the earth, looked up at the sky, and vowed
Ashoka shall never kill again.

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