The wind was ever gentle on the skin.
It was ever something to love; it was ever
So mighty—how wondrous, were the bows
Of the reeds, and the hisses of the trees.
But o’, how much swifter do time’s wings flap!—
Newton’s thoughts; they now trouble me.
How effortlessly things turn, from this to that!
I now bow to the wind in horror.
The rain’s drops were ever fresh, and clear
As the breath of life and gift of sight once were.
From above, the drops descended blessings,
Bringing life, good, and watering beginnings.
Their forms, of beauty, of innocence—simplicity;
Their tears, not bitter of the past, but here
To wash away the pain, the regrets, and the unspoken.
From above, fell drops of different forms—
How magnificent some were, yet how horrific
Were their counter-agents of destruction;
When with rage they fell, they destroyed.
The sky was a breath-taking blue, with sums
Of clouds. It was warm with the rays,
From sunrise till sunset. It was pregnant
With blessings—it bore them to the earth;
It kissed end to end with life, and mortals lived.
Angry, the clouds could look, when fuming
In black, and spreading end to end, and leaving
The mortals in dark and in horror of destructions.
Like above, did below exist in twos;
Like without, did within thrive in twos.
Two is harmony, in synchrony, two is one;
Two is conflict, as well, two is confusion.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.