The windfarmer was thirty
When Sputnik was launched.
He woke the kids who followed
His finger across the night sky
Of a nativity scene.
He returned to the tractor,
Ploughed years of soil,
Planted rows of questions,
Tilled crops and cared
For animals.
He's a windfarmer now.
Stands beneath the behemoth blades
Turning over the air we breathe,
Felling the clouds,
And harvesting the wind.
The mills are run by a distant orbiter.
His farm,
He calls it Spooknyk.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
The windfarmer was thirty
When Sputnik was launched.
He woke the kids who followed
His finger across the night sky
Of a nativity scene.
He returned to the tractor,
Ploughed years of soil,
Planted rows of questions,
Tilled crops and cared
For animals.
He's a windfarmer now.
Stands beneath the behemoth blades
Turning over the air we breathe,
Felling the clouds,
And harvesting the wind.
The mills are run by a distant orbiter.
His farm,
He calls it Spooknyk.
