The quiet is quite unfriendly,
Quickly abrading the garden’s peace,
Lashing out the doves’ darling white wings,
Addling those birds’ acuity.
The wind’s kiss is fierce yet gentle,
Indulgent, oppressive, kind, and sweet.
Only can they know this, the greens—
They want to abscond from this cuddle!
Then the voice (How it thunders in
Like a group of marching sentinels,
Wild, in unison, and disciplined)
Slashes the menacing silence.
A clarion call it speaks, my senses
Are flung to the ground, brought to life:
In nothing is something! Listen
To your heart’s whispers, they’re alive!



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