My Poetry

Of Lost Knowledge

He sits beside the edge of the lake and gazes out over the water. A light breeze stirs in his hair and clothes, calling to him to dance, whispering to him secrets in a language long lost to his kind. He remains seated on the flat rock by the lake, closing his eyes to listen to the soft voice of the water, mistaking it for peace. But the lake is scarred always by the wind, tormented water suffering the marring caress of the air, and its soft calls are cries of pain, waves washing upon the earth in an attempt to pull away. The sun is warm on his skin, and he revels in the heat, soothed by his tranquil interpretation of the day. He listens to the sounds of nature, the cries of the lake and the whispers of the wind, but he hears nothing. The trees behind him are singing and dancing with the wind, understanding its call and music, beckoning him to join them, but he hears only a signal to leave as the breeze strengthens and picks up the pace. He climbs to his feet, taking one last look over the lake and believing himself at one with the world, calmed at heart and soul. Then he leaves, walking with his head high, completely oblivious to the cries of the tortured lake and the summons of the wind and trees to dance. For his kind no longer dance in the wind, and the language is lost to them.