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The Silent Victim

The weighty sound of the wind is rippling like the waves of an ocean, pushing at the roof and the walls of our shaking house, while water-lashed windows show the wind outside, in the form of horizontal streaks of white. It’s raining bits of ice. The snow-plough guy hasn’t even showed up; probably his contract is up by now, and he’s just as sick of winter as we are now.

I’m thinking “what did we do to **** *** Mother Nature so?”. Then I think “Oh yeah. There’s that.” and I sit still, listening to the healthy rage outside of a world crumbling under the weight of us all.

4 Responses to “The Silent Victim”

  1. Simon

    The sweet poetry of it all is that angry as it seems, the world will hardly notice us when we’re gone, and in less than the blink of a cosmic eye all evidence of the impact we had here will be erased.

    That said, I’m really happy that it’s sunny and warm here today. Hoping for good weather for you. Just not at the expense of ours! :)

  2. Karine

    Woah. C’était beau. Mais ça disait tellement quelque chose de terrifiant. Mais c’était beau. J’ai hâte que tu en sortes un livre. Bordel. Je ne me souvenais pas que t’écrivais bien comme ça. Ben j’savais que t’écrivais bien mais j’avais rien lu de récent. Tu devrais profiter de ton congé de maternité, ma soeur. ;)

  3. Moksha Gren

    Beautifully stated, Emilie. Sad that it’s so often the rotten and the trying that bring out the poetry.

  4. Anonymous

    ouah!

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