Spirits of the Storm
Stormed warriors with bolts of light raced across the sky.
They carried leather buckets and filled them with their tears.
They poured them out over the clouds to make them cry.
Then beat their drum like anger the thunder that we hear.
The winds howled their might and strength and blew in the night.
Rushing, swirling clouds of black, torrential in their wake.
Now mother earth is clean and washed, the flowers growing bright.
Dead limbs and branches cleared, a safe path now we can take.
The Masked Writer <o.o>
(C) 2001 T Lovett |
