Season Of The Winds Poem by Tony Adah

The wind bore me on its shoulder
Saved me from the cataclysm
In the land,
Crops drowned
Water everywhere but none to quench
The scorching thirst,
Birds down
With no bough to perch and preach
Plumes drooped, dripping and drenched
Like a folded umbrella from the rain
Goats borrow the breath of
The gushing wind to bleat
A forlorn song.
Where are my competitors?
They whine and fret
At the darkness upon the shrapnel's
Of the volcanic regurgitation
Tomorrow, bleak as it is
Will their sun come
Or leave them grope in
Paths undefined?
Why must it be me
On the wings of the wind?
And safe in the history of this wind?
That school that I went
The wind was there
It recognised me in the pages
Of its archives
Yes, I am a treasure in the museum
Of my yesterday
The only one and my types
Safe from the rhythm of the violent
Wind with a chortle of the chosen few.