Cold, sharp wind, roaread with delight in its violence, rupturing windows,
tearing the embrace of two hands apart,
ripping the tree's roots from the ground.
It made water move, it killed or enraged a fire,
with laughter it evoked the immobile devices to rise,
to fly, to kill, seeking the weak,
It was selfish, the wind claiming space with its claws,
like an angered child crying for attention,
like a mosquito's bite on a humid day, claiming what is not theirs to take.
When the wind ran towards the most valuable places, leaving behind
only the chaos of its screams, people rose and awoke,
to find the dead buried beneath, beneath them, beneath it all.
It brought death, it caused destruction, it evoked fear,
and it moved quickly, but never leaving you alone,
its poison always, and forever filling your lungs.