The wind snatches at the hill-tops
And the insides of my ears,
Clawing inside of my mind
And whispering about what lies
Beyond the sea, and high up
Above the clouds.
It dances along my skin with
A thousand swinging feathers
That hook upon my clothes
And tug me up until I’m dizzy
With resistance, and the hard
Stones seem to relinquish my feet.
It makes me feel the unbearable
Lightness of being Milan Kundera
Wrote a novel of, and when the
Wind realises I’m far too
Prosaically rooted to this world,
It runs off without a backwards glance.
Fickle as desire.
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