The Wind
Image – The Clouds. Photo: Anonymous.
A poem to print and leave in strange places for strangers to find …
I.
The bellows of the wind
Blew up the roaring fire,
An anxious soul protested,
“Will you put it out.”
I answered, “I would
Be patient and
Await the conclusion.”
What is this conclusion,
If not another
Denouement, and
Another Night,
Like other nights,
When the Green Men
Of the maple tree dance.
Or when the clouds
Send sigils,
Drifting East,
Heading toward
Who knows where,
Where we export
Our toxic waste.
Wall Street sends
Its debris across
Seas and into
Other lands,
Where it lands with
Transformational intent
To burden others.
The clouds often speak
Of curious things,
Such as strange bedfellows
Blown backward,
Toward the far horizon,
Where curious souls
Greet them with caution.
II.
These curious souls,
The proverbial Other,
Wonder if the migrants
May not be vagrants,
And whether or not
Such vagrants might be toxic,
Or possibly interlopers.
Capital loves to export
Its wares to places unaware,
And places far enough away
To guard itself against the likely
Implosion and fallout.
It does this fully aware
That deeds as such are punished.
But Capital is not human.
It escapes all punishment
For deeds deemed criminal
In courts of law and
In human souls.
It has no conscience since
It is inhuman.
It proceeds in waves,
Like rain or snow,
And leaves its toll
At doors unknown.
It cares for nothing
But itself, and what
It wrought, it hardly knows.
The day will come,
When logic fails
And something wholly
Different prevails.
The sign will be the
Crescent moon
Succumbing to
The rising Sun.
–Anonymous