Cyclone

When the wind that sifts dust
becomes erratic
the earth becomes
like someone's kite- trees, clouds and sky
clash against each other-
the obscure torches
silence breaks plates
empty space pours down
that presupposes
the advent of something unseen
which takes shape for something
else unseen
as grapes manifest
from blossoms
heavy with wine unseen
in which you look for what is firm
that lifts its head in your heart-
yielding insight other than
sorrow and joy,
the rest is dreg.