A Harsh Wind

The wind howls in smelling of 
prisons, cemeteries, 
hospital ashes— misery.

“What does it 
want  from us?”,
the people ask. 

The wind does not answer.

They, demand it go away,
scram like a lost, confused dog
looking desperately for its owner.

Instead the wind blows their 
paintings off their hooks,
knocks over their table lights,
blows their precious papers
with their meaningful words
off their mahogany writing desks,
rattles their pots and pans,
smashes their dishes to the floor.

They plead again.
The wind doesn’t hear,
doesn’t listen to them. 

Instead the wind 
divides the sea
from the sea. 
It scoops the waters
and smashes it 
against their doors,
leaving the wet to 
pool along their
thresholds and sweeps.

The wind demands 
that the sky flash,
trees uproot themselves.

It demands their 
roofs to detach,
so it can growl 
inside their homes,
leaving them
windowless, doorless.

 The wind knows that
with the sea at its command,
they can’t leave by boat.

The waters rise.
The sky turns black.

“Who would rescue us?”,
they cry among themselves. 

The wind approaches 
the humble home 
of the local poet.

The people knew 
that the poet
spoke the truth,
would speak the truth.

“Don’t underestimate it,”
the people told the poet.
“It is a wicked, 
malevolent wind.
Do not anger it,”
they urged him. 

The poet was an
old and humble man,
who had many chats 
with the wind
in gentler times.
He walked with a staff.

But the wind was not kind, today.
In its anger the wind had 
forgotten their conversations.

The wind blew harshly 
against the poet.  
The poet stood 
firm and straight,
gathered himself 
to speak again 
to this once 
gentle friend.  

“Stop him,”
the people shouted
not to the wind, 
not to the poet,
but to themselves
without reflection.

Fearing the truth,
the people cut out
the poet’s tongue, 
leaving him unable 
to speak a word.
They cut off his hands,
fearing what he 
would write about them.
They blinded him so he 
could no longer see 
the truth of who they were.
They bond him to his  bed
so he could not not move 
and wander to other lands.  

Mercifully, the wind 
blew itself into the poet
until its breath 
snuffed out his,
and his body
disintegrated and 
dispersed to its
farthest corners.  

The wind turned 
to the people 
and with 
a deafening noise
and barbed thrusts,
blinded them,
maimed them, 
muted them
three folds 
what they did 
to his poet friend.

To this day the other
towns refused to travel 
to this town where 
the wind once blew harsh.