This melody is a soothing song on the lips of a whirlwind,
And a banquet of festival for sands, branches, and leafs
each to its own swirl, dancing fiercely in the ire of a storm.
Drumbeat of thunderclaps parades the eyes of a sober cloud
sending fort teardrops that takes shelter on the bosom of our lands.
This song is but a familiar song, perching on the wings of our dreams,
Each beat dropping like a symphony of rhythms upon our roofs.
while our lands becomes a drunk from the teardrops of a weeping sky,
We all troop out, unclad, dancing amidst a sonorous song.
While we danced, mama’s call becomes an eyesore to our ears,
We would rebuke Papa’s warnings like a drench wood to a fire,
And gladly turn rebels. Our noise becomes our weapons,
Breaking down walls, snatching the peace and silence of our homes.
For we are but carefree in the seasons of the thunderstorms.
Now, the songs are no more, our bodies weak and feeble,
Weary from the repeated sermon of cold and fever.
We pay no heed to mama’s tears and papa’s agony
When we become visitors on the bed of cold and its cohorts.
For in the seasons of the thunderstorm, we are but carefree.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.