What does it mean to be a tempest?
Is it about the rain, how it falls?
Or is it the paint, peeling off the walls?
Do you run from the rage of the storm?
Hide from the wind, the screeching gales,
Shut yourself in, until the wall fails?
Do you find hope on this dark day?
Hope for the Sun, a cloudless sky,
Or do you run, through stormy night?
When do you stop and wait for calm?
First comes the simmer, then the boil,
The surface shimmers with the broil.
Is it over? Has the storm passed?
If the Sun's done its prison sentence,
What does it mean to be a tempest?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem