Typhoon

I still recall how loud the wind

blew as it slew the wire

screens around the terrace,

how everything screamed

and howled into my eyes wide

open, unafraid

 

while they told me that the

banging of the door, the same sound

when the old ones were raving,

was the dark bad man from behind

the sacred tree, angry at our

non-belief, our loud music,

 

our short skirts, our lack of fear.

It was easy to wonder why, even then,

the words carried on the wind,

which only I could hear, spoke in

a language warmer than fire,

heavier than eyes full of sleep.

 

(c) Ella Wagemakers, 18.18 Dutch time (= 12.20 EST in the US)

 

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