The storm has perhaps passed.
Or at least, somewhat abated.
What was once dark clouds
Has given way to boundless sky
What was once oppressive torrents
Has washed the streets clean
What was once battering gales
Has returned to a harmony
Children play.
The storm has perhaps passed.
Or at least, somewhat abated.
The ground is still damp
So let us clean and shine our boots.
The air still clings humid
So let us polish and oil our blades.
The fields cannot yet be tilled
So let measure a short while longer
And children, play.
Has the storm passed?
At least, is is abated?
The young maidens dress their hair
The young men strut and stride
But the old men only half-smile
Storms abate yet re-rise
Calling for shined blades and boots and measurements
For the frontiers and wars and blank canvasses