from the frozen and
desolate peaks
of some ancient, sibylline
mountain range,
a proper wind—
by the time it meanders
through the amber waves,
and cools,
for an instant
or two, all the impotent
plains of the Earth—
decrescendos
to a whisper,
much to the relief
of its workaday
fools and sinners. But
much to the chagrin
of its politicians
and philosophers,
who can't abide
a whisper,
unless it's made
of words.
