A LAST BREATH

Drops whip the dusty ground by squalls.
Down the volcano, the acidity of the opaque liquid
defaces the land now muddy and smoking.

 

This rain, that strikes a drove of dead trees,
comes from an anger once blue and fertile.

 

When the storm disappears, the lava will flow
because the naked branches have already sacrified their fineries,
and the tortuous roots have found a shelter in the heart of the flames.

 

The forest, the army that is now rising, will soon give its last fight.

 

A boiling soup surrounds the island.
The melting rocks hold back the deadline as much as they can.
As a shield built of clay, a proud but powerless curtain of steam
encircles this last dying bubble.

 

There we go ! The raging streams are ready for their revenge,
waiting for harpooning hope, smothering any attempt of rebirth.

 

The only vast ocean, long ago made of water,
is sending its huge soldiers to flood the golden geyser,
to uproot the wood that's creaking with terror,
that's imploring a faceless punishment.

 

Waves are doing themselves justice, working hard to swallow
the last track of the epidemic which has worn them down so much.

 

A final spit of blood seals the dried dusts's death.
Those ones which have played too much with the poisoned flowers,
and challenged the peaceful depths.

 

What's wrong ? Finally all is flat ...
What's wrong ? Finally all is straight ...
All is quiet. All is in order.
What's wrong ?