The Season Of Winds Poem by Tony Adah

The wind bore me on its shoulder
Saved me from the cataclysm
In the land
Crops drown
Water everywhere
Birds down
With no bough to perch,
Plumes drooped and dripping
Like a folded drenched umbrella
Coming from the rain,
Goats borrowed breath
From the gushing wind to bleat
A forlorn song.

My competitors whine
At the wind's aftermath;
Darkness upon the shrapnel's
Of volcanic regurgitations
Tomorrow, bleak as it is
Will the sun rise?
Or leave us grope in paths undefined.
Why must it be me safe in the
History of the wind?
That school that I went,
The wind recognizes in the pages
Of its archives.
Yes, I am a treasure in the museum
Of my yesterday
I am safe
The only one of my type, safe from
From the rhythm of the violent wind
With a chortle of the chosen few.