The Chill Of The Wind

The soul of this wind needs
No rainbow
But only desperation for a crushing blow.
He blows and blows and blows
Over the life
Of the seeds in the fruits,
And blows again
Over the purity
Of all the creeds.
Much more, he blows
Until everything around bleeds.

This wild wind needs to feed
His inner fire, which is a bloody furry
For a sunless time,
And fights an uphill battle
Against any existence.

His chills gather speed
While coming down from the hills.
He's wild enough
To get the naked trees riled,

He has been blind
But never mild.
This wind has never been a child.


Poem by Marieta Maglas