Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The Wind.

Every city has a cemetery,
towns have 'em too.

The cemetery is flat land
surrounded by gates,
and dead bones

The wind flies freely
above the dead
Uncaptured, unconfined,

Back in the city
The wind struggles through
the walls and gates
of societies fruit.
The wind has to fight
until it reaches the nostrils
of Adam and Eve
running up a stair case
of a sky scrapping tower.

In the city,
the wind bangs and roars.
Unlike the cemetery,
where it quietly floats
above those who let the wind out.

The wind hovers
above the cemetery's field.
For there amongst the dead
the secret is told
that the night is old
And the wind holds its surprise
for those that rise
at the early hours of the day
to the crying sound of the wind
swimming through the obstacles of
Wrapping towers
as it hugs the glass
that just kissed the wood
of the windowsill.

The wind runs through the narrow alleys
that barely have room for two.
And the holes in the walls
let the wind run through
and chill the bones of a child
as the wind whistles it a lullaby
of free flying winds
under blue skies.

Brick and cloth
all keep the wind out.
Leaving it to wiggle the young trees
whose leaves fall
into the hands of troubled winds
who have traveled through cities and walls,
choked by the scrapers in the sky.

Back in the cemetery
the wind flies freely
amidst those who lye in sand
easily blown by the wind.
The wind doesn't whistle or hymn
and there is no glass to hug and kiss.
Just space for wind and wind for space
above a sheet of soil
hiding those who have become like wind

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