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Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Storm

Is that gold I see; glittering on the crest-leaves
                         Of those far-away trees?
Are those broad trunks, swathed in silver skeins,
                         By invisible, dancing fairies?
The heavens are shrouded by a rich black mantle;
                         Timeless, deep and dark.
All will soon be blown away by the winds;
                         Washed away without a mark.

The roar of the thunder, deep rolling growls;
Will smother even the fiercest wolves’ howls.
The brilliant flashes of blinding white and blue,
They are not a magician’s art, they are immortal and true.

I revel in this show of power, Mother Nature’s rage.
More than all the, light and sound, display of this age.
Pomp and splendor devised by mortal hands;
One day in near future, will be wrenched away,
From the very pedestal on which it, today, stands.

But in your angry growls, Mother;
 I find solace and peace.
Your dreadful dances of light, Mother;
Lulls my trembling heart to sleep.