Once, there was a wind, and in its
swirling, spinning path it touched
many things. Trees bent in sway to
the rising gale, flowers bowed by a
passing sigh, leaves pulled from their
rest, to sway and dance in the lifting
wind, high into the moving air, while
trees that before were clad, now are bare.
Stark and naked. as the wind falls, two trees
move to the winds desire, and swaying
catch, and swaying hold, branches linked.
A gateway to nothingness, to which all things
go in time, dust on the wind.

Hot, cool.
Damp, moist.
Blurring, biting, stinging clouds.
Spring Weather.

A man looks on, beyond himself,
a thunder-storm is brewing, and
though it isn't raining yet, he knows
the storm is stewing.

A man dreams of sunken towers,
windows shattered, dark and empty.
And yet between these broken giants,
swimming cars are speeding by, traffic
ghastly in its size, yet blurring past
without a sound, while sharks and fishes
swim overhead, and eels hide in their
gravel-stone beds.


He stares surreal, lost
in wonder, at the wonderful madness of the
scene all before him. And then a change, a
slowing, stopping, beasts and motors grind to
a halt, and all is still, and all is silent, save for the
gentle swaying of clinging plants, in the cracks and
hollows of Times old ruins. Crack! A short and ringing
sound, first to break the ancient silence. And then, in the
stillness after the shock, a long thin crack appeared on
the side, of that old and towering corpse.


Then came a feel, a shimmering thing, reminding
the man of the heat of a fire in the shivering chill of a cold winters
evening. And in this strange feel, this shimmering thing,
the dreaming man watched, with eyes stretched as far
as they ever could go, as the wall started to sway, to
shiver and creak! He knew this insanity had reached its
peak! As he watched, he saw, he turned all to pale, as
an eye of monstrous, hideous size, opened before him,
blue iris watching, watching him watching, as that eye
stretched as far as it ever could go.


It's pupil was golden,
and it's whites were all yellow, like the tired old color of weary
old bone. It stared at the man, who was watching in turn,
an then with a horrible, hideous crackle, it's huge golden
pupil, it started to burn. Encircled by flames, blue-gold and pale,
it's pupil it shrank, and it shrank down some more, till at last
with a ******* and succulent sound, it was gone, it was vanished!
It was staring no more.


And then with a crack and a rumbling sound,
the eye started to close, it's lids falling slowly, but before they closed the
man thought he perceived, a flickering light where the pupil should be.
With a shivering shudder the man woke with a start. His face was all
sweaty, his sheets were all soaked. The man closed his eyes, and shivered
with fear, at that horrible dream, with that eye full of fire. And there in the
dark of that midwinters night, the man stayed awake till the first hint of
light.

On the clouds, moors of heaven,
skidding by, oh would to fly, as
a cloud in a rushing, driving gale.
Wind screaming, tearing, wearing,
lift the trees and raise the stones!
Topple moors and masts alike, and
drive the waves to foaming roar, on
the rocks of the wine-dark sea. On
the edge of the wine-dark sea. Driving,
driving, lifting, falling, speed my lover
home to me. Home to me, home to me,
upon the raging wine-dark sea. To me
across the empty sea.

Upon the grassy, sunlit mound, wind blowing, leaves quaking,
sighing words of sun and rain, the trees speak in weathered tones,
of sun and moon and star and stone. Stalks waving, soil crumbling,
life wakes beneath the ground, and stirring moves to face the sun.
In the early days of spring.

The tall grass waving,
leaves sighing, sun shining.
Silence crowns the lonely hill,
and life moves slowly, calmly on,
while peace abides between the
cracks, in the ancient mossy stones.
In the old and silent stones.