I understand....
the wind is blowing
from a different mountain now.
Thick smoke will rise
from placid chimneys,
billowing without apparent aim,
weeds nod
and sway as if in trance
they are not candles
in the winds of time,
but flowers in a smart disguise,
so few can know
the secret of
the paucity of love,
brushed with the strokes
of cyclone gray
ignored by those
whose minds would separate
the cream just from the cream,
discard the whey
with all its riches
and the specks of growth,
they would not dream
to search,
or contemplate the thought
that man cannot conceive
of temples without those
who must commit their sins,
while wallowing with glee
inside a giant vat
filled with genetic superiority
yet only in a shallow way,
while confident
of an abundance in
the sediment of fertile grounds.
Meanwhile...
the wind resumes
unsure of who might be
the flower
or the weed.
And in the fog,
its silhouette unseen,
turbines without a soul
now fill the morning air,
night thunder to the frigate birds,
from deep within the bowels
of the ship of fools,
known to a few to be
the steamboat of indifference.
Herbert Nehrlich 2
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anger-is-the-weed-hate-is-the-tree/
