The wind pressed its ears against the window
The prisoner of the house listened intently
To the howling outside
And the wind could hear the torrent of a broken heart
Emulating every impulse

And grass would be wiped from every meadow
Leaving only dust and rocks gathered neatly
With the protests growing wild
And the fire would break out in the town square
The crowd would pulsate with repulsion for the raging bulls

The prisoner of the house would keep his teapot
Neatly beside his teacups, cured meats, and salt shakers
Meticulously tidying his room till the clothes were piled
Into a single stack of leggings, pants, and blazers
The momentum of the mobs grew louder

Each fellow entered the street
In a slew of curses, and accompanying picketing folk
They were all holding scarecrows and burning cars
The whole town was dead and the hearts were on fire
The raging fire couldn't be tamed by the cold

Those imprisoned in their house
Had never seen such a fire
But they only heard the wind with intent ears
And carried on their daily tasks in lonely homes
And the fields were empty, and the streets were in tears