Whisper in the wind,
A deafening silence.
The dry green fields boast of a new flame,
An eerie maroon flame:
As quiet as a mist,
As loud as a brooding thunderstorm’s vagitus,
Where the screams of battle fluster to an uncontrolled madness,
And the belly of the abyss feeds till its satisfaction.
Sadness forms its own consonance of cries,
Tears and blood, their own dendrite,
Chaos married the ground,
And darkness impregnated the land.
This chronic virus
That causes heads to roll,
Hearts to break,
Arms to shake,
Tongues to wag;
Didn’t just emanate from the vacuum.
It was created,
Now it has fused with our cells,
And split with a cold, yet unforced writhe in our veins;
It is us.
How can a man fight his own blood?
What choice do we have?
If we let the pathogens of our past to destroy us,
We will live the same life,
Breathe the same breath,
And die the same death.
So I say;
Spill our desolated blood with the knives of our struggle,
Pinch our ashy skin with our claws till the pain can’t be endured,
Burn our diseased flesh with the heat of our conflict.
Fill our veins with a river of clear water,
Let us breathe a breath of pureness,
Induce in us new heartbeat.
Let us bask in an undulating song,
So that we won’t stay alive,
As individual entities,
As a single coherent body.
Our drums roll ferociously,
Our feet scamper with joy,
We vocalize with fervent diversity,
Yet we speak with a single voice:
That from a distance,
Though enraptured by the heavenly lights,
I listened on,
At how slowly but surely,
Our whisper in the wind,
From an eerie cold mist of blood,
To a playful beam of hope,
Which we are all proud to call;
Our whisper in the wind.