As I write this piece, there is a storm outside. I see maddening sways of trees and orange, pink and blue kandeels do an eccentric jig. The wind is furious. Doors and windows slam, but they do seem to be enjoying this tussle. The wind chime hung above my window chirps and tinkles like a pretty little princess at the Mad Hatter’s party.
This storm may have started just a few minutes ago, but it seems age-old. It seems to have come from the bowels of time that is almost Bronte-type. Dark, huge, unwieldy, unyielding, moorish…There are deep rumbles of thunder, and strong, shaky juggernauts of lightning. There are clangs of temple bells sounding off in a part of the world I cannot see. From some insane labyrinth, there come roars of waves crashing against tall, jagged rocks. I can’t spot them, But I know how they will be. This storm is old.
The air is wet with promise. It is full of clandestine scent of lush rain. This will come later, when the world is either asleep or unprepared. It will come and gash at routine slumber and smack hard poetry on unsuspecting eyelids.
It is a beautiful storm. It is age-old. I have lived this storm before.