The Imprint Of A Cyclone Warm sea and that humidity, cyclogenesis And from there waves whirl like magic, And as the sea murmurs its design to the wind It’s a lively lovely spur of rage that unfurls Beating firmly against the hull of boats; As the water trembles, foamy becomes the sea While creatures of the ocean shake joyously In the swirl of a gargantuan tumultuous love That floods the shores with destructive desire That hugs everything in their idyllic embrace. Beyond the rough sea a huge wind suddenly rises And here, I am like a bright summer cloth That unconcernedly dance on a dried coconut rope Beside a trembling palm tree that sways in the wind; Suddenly the mountain is erased by fogs and smokes While these thick grey clouds entirely cover the sky, And my heart longs for the luminosity of the day Where the melancholy of things start to affect my mind While a gentle type of blues cover me in soft duvets As I daydream of the remaking of my world. Then after these woolgathering moments I was drawn at the window with curious eyes And I saw the dreaded images of broken things — The trembling trees that struggled to stand upright Some already dead on the ground, leaves, flowers, The soil flooded with water, drowning tiny creatures As fledglings and birds looked for shelter in the sky While the sadistic whirlwind preyed on animals On everything without shelter, destroying lives. I stand there as a terrified fascinated eyewitness To the uproar of rage of this whirling entity, And suddenly tears drown my eyes, sadness As I face my own rage and perturbations — These abject wounds and dysmorphic dreams My rebellious desires, decadence, and folly, But can my heart be compared to that of nature? And in the space of a moment I thought I saw myself In the devastating eye of this sweeping storm, But all of it, was only the imprint of a cyclone Made on the surface of my loving heart. -Eiravel-
That temporary semi-darkness that persists during cyclonic weather affects my circadian rhythm, which is confused by the penumbra that remains during daytime; my internal clock is disoriented because of the thick grey clouds that cover the sky at waking hours. The atmosphere is gloomy and damp and breezy, but strangely the ambiance is not a morose and depressing one; on the contrary, a dreamlike state floats in the air, while inspiration reveals itself in the howling winds, in the gleeful dance of the foliages of trees, in the heavy rainfalls, and in our bodies that undergo torpor under the effect of half-light.