Echo On The Wind

The chimes in my backyard sing noisily, clanking silver in the pale morninglight.
Spring is late, as a cold wind blows on the trembling flowers below.
Winter is hanging on, as the sun tries to push one season ahead, worry on her brow.

The rain brings me back inside, leaving its wet touch on my eyes and hands.
Like the buzzing of insects gone mad, the news of the world's anguish grows,
as apparently the memory of the last global horror has faded incomprehensibly.

There is an echo on the wind, one that does not return the song my chimes are singing,
but one that has the darkness of drums of war and despair.
I hear the laughter of the small children down the street, sweet crystal on the hope I pray will prevail.

Where do we go from here, the chimes want to know,  "why would we care?" the dark drums growl.
There is an echo on the wind, its breath is icy cold, soldiers like spectres walk the dark clouds above, zombies from the past rising to the sinister call.

There is an ill echo on the wind, and it is spreading its disease
with no remedy for anyone but the mighty and the tall, who will watch the world burn
as they shake their arrogant heads at the vulnerable and the small.

There is an echo on the wind, there is no translation for its insane moan.
Time is going into a slowmotion spin, before its roar and madness fast forwards us into the bleakest of nights with only the memory of the wind before its bottomless fall.



Trudi Ralston.
April 12th, 2017.
" War is the ultimate madness. " Leonardo da Vinci. ( 1452 - 1519 )