No breeze to sing in the leaves
And no sunshine to brace the woodland lanes.
Early afternoon,
The children had eased quickly back home from school
And the women had made short work of collecting their water.
Before the great howl on the way,
The well had sunk deeper into a deserted and threatening silence
Old men gazed with fear and uneasiness at the sky
And shook their heads.
It was red, ominous and full of fears.
The animals lowedrestlessly inthe sheds
As the village tucked itself behind closed doors and windows
And waited.
A bottle of rumin his hand,
An unshaven man growled angrily at the sky.
As he dangled between two blades of rising wind,
A storm!
He had nothing to lose,
He never had anything.
He was born with empty hands,
Except for the bottle rum, they were still empty.
There was no difference between the bottle
And him.
One is always half empty
And the other half full.
Wind or calm
War or peace, the bottle had never stopped emptying.
Who cares if it was a storm, he screeched at the closing storm
Or a sunny day!
Or a baby was born
Wind, rain, rum
Storm, blood shed and babies have all always been here
For the having, any way!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem