The wind turbines, wind farms, windmills,
Weathercocks, and farts from your Lipari caves,
And the sails that we never pull down,
In our journeys with the wind,
When we realize that just like the wind,
There’s a force behinds us,
Call it God, Fatum, destiny, any fashionable name,
When who we are, are those wind-guided souls,
Looking at our interiors; the viscera,
The chambers of the heart, the inner sanctum,
Even the boundless universe beneath two kissable lips.
How the wind always comes on top,
When we are like the Windy City, Chicago,
With the doomsday clock, marching on,
As we wane in our windy ways, until that day
Your son or daughter or your widow, throws
Your ashes to the wind, making plumes of scatterings,
Knowing we are only as alive as the pneuma in us,
That keeps our heartbeats palpitating,
And our lungs awake, as we become garrisons of dust,
The day all vitality elopes.
And then, you’re no longer,
The rustle or the ripple or the flute music,
Only fate blowing you long-distance kisses,
Asking you to trust in the wind,
And you know you are by nature, a breeze,
When in love, you become a hurricane,
And just like the Aeolian forces,
You’re at mercy of weathering. A man who let his
Heart discover, that one creature, whose windy forces,
Deposit sediments on the outside and the in.
Like those Santa Ana winds blowing through
A windy heart, shaping it in to a Californication.
A slow fossilization, to a gritty love.