Down from the north,
Clearing the hill’s
Snow-topped shoulder,
Lashing the pale
Brittle grass,
The wind wheels.
Skimming the land
Low, like a sickle,
Shaking the trees
Barren that feel
Its vehement breath,
Taunting the bells’
Tranquil high
Calm as they peal
Notes like moons,
The wind growls
In mock singsong.
Arguing all
Day, all night
Plaguing, the dull
River of sound
Rises, fills
Our being, and mind
Taut as a sail
Snaps: in its
Continual bellow
We choke, drown;
The wind kills.
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