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Sleeping Wind

Crazy birds swinging at a peaceful wind,
Stirring up its slowly anger,
Yet claim to only touch its tail,
But the onlooking trees are to tell the tale,
For their ribs and bones are broken.

A moonlight tale so translucent
The night think himself so light
And bluffs at the beckon of the moon,
That his sight went up in flames of darkness.

I desire the days when my ears were young,
When my eyes so innocent swam in cooling peace,
When nights sprayed winded dust
On the white brushes on my grandfather's face,
Bending their heads in glorious bow.

Like my grandfather, I am of the tribe of Igbo,
A name that reverberates as the voice of the sky,
So great a name to revere,
Yet like the wind blows fury when crazy birds swing.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


The perfect title and one that drew me in amongst your other offerings. And here I am nearly a month gone by since first posting to give you accolades in this sleepy place. "Crazy birds blow furry" so true in their yearning to be heard.

Thank you for posting this terrific piece, I was happy to give you a read. Be well until who knows when...


Thank you for your generous comments.


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