The Coming Storm In The Village

by P. A Oranmeyen

The wind comes blowing through the louvres,

To run over my skin,

Cool and soothing,

As I stand at the magazine stand.

 

Twinkling in the night sky outside,

Are the many stars,

Little eyes of the unknown do they look;

Eyes smiling,

Over the subdued city,

Underneath the huge overturned bowl,

That the night’s sky is.

 

The sound of traffic comes faint and singing,

But unusual silence envelopes the hall,

And I turned round;

Seven faces,

Thinking of home’s comfort,

And turning out the last reader,

Me.

 

Outside,

And to me comes the night’s coolness,

 Doubly strengthened,

Caressing my arms and cooling my forehead.

 

The wind howls now,

Pieces of dirty paper,

Are in the streets flying;

Deserted streets,

Save the lonely souls hurrying,

To the comfort of home.

 

Cool wind now,

Speaking to me,

Of of childhood days;

Days of innocence,

When the very air,

Was great discovery,

And the paper kite,

The greatest invention.

 

Cool winds speaking,

Of the early life,

Mother’s warm breasts,

And the comforting laps,

The soothing palm in the thunderstorm,

And the ample arm,

Protection itself it was,

From lightning’s flash;

Her warmth,

And,

The calming words,

For her frightened prince;

Her great prince,

That even cats could bully without trying,

Who ruled her heart,

And her motherly love held,

That great prince that was so,

For being her first living male.

 

 

The drizzle comes now,

Cold,

Like alien snow in the darkness,

As I break,

From the dark and lonely streets.

 

Neon lights here,

Psychedelic and inviting,

Like unconcerned mutes,

They smile in the rain,

Doomed to the elements,

And happy in their work,

Bringing to me,

Thoughts of Mother,

Happy she is in her work at home.

 

Mother,

That would slave for her children’s happiness,

Mother that would starve,

If feeding them meant going hungry,

To whom the greatest sorrow,

Is the frown of her children,

On her advice.

 

The rain grows stronger,

And with other victims,

Do I seek shelter from the lash,

Under the upper floors,

  The closed shops,

Listening ,

To the animated chatter here.

 

Woman behind a big pan,

Porridge seller;

The ladle dips,

And disappearing,

Brown bowl comes to view;

White inside receives,

The hot brown liquid,

With money bowl beside her,

Of water and coins,

And daughters behind giggling,

With two youngmen joking.

 

Street lights shining on the watery street,

Like a million fireflies,

Under a ruffled sea;

In keeping beat of movement,

With whistling,

Of a cinema house nearby,

And taxicabs crawling down the street,

Windows closed,

Like so many tortoises in the rain.

 

And I stood by the hurrying humanity,

Beside the porridge seller,

Listening,

To the soothing sounds,

Savouring,

The singing ring of her voice,

The homely sound that called for customers,

Before the closed shops,

Business place of the Levantines;

While against a pillar I lean,

Thinking,

Of the night life and the rain,

Darwin,

The Beginning,

And of Mother