Last night you asked me if
I could visit your province,
in the far north.
A little hesitant,
your brother would have said,
'let bygones be bygones.'
I remember how your father
told a story
of how your people were used
to challenge the winds.
Their folks were fishermen,
in a typhoon-laden sea.
Their wives always had feuds with the weather,
centuries of life and death
predictions made their mouths sharp.
But that was an old story, you say,
as I mention bad weathers and cancelled trips.
You added how I would love
the windmills your people now erected, their arms dancing
over the mountains,
seducing the wind, like they're saying
'Come and get me.'
There is no longer a war between your people and the wind,
you insist,
only windmills.
After all, wars are not won
by building walls, but bridges.
So I carefully thought about my plans
over the weekend, and maybe your brother is right, even just inside my head,
I should let bygones be bygones.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
