The rainbow.

Stale hope hangs as a sweat-heavy cloud. Rivin sits with others in the dirt between cyclone fences. Their cardboard signs push back at the guards and cameras, the sour air itself.

The rain brings relief. The bystanders scatter when it falls. Rivin tilts his head to catch the fat drops in his mouth. His children would do this in peals of laughter, dance in mud puddles. His eyes light, briefly. The years have made it hurt to hold this love.

After the outpouring, Rivin rests his words, reaches fingers to the rainbow’s downward smile. They can not touch its colours.

*

[inspired by the feature image — from Human Rights Watch, via SBS]