The wind, the voices

The wind pushes them

from the room. They flow

into the street, the wind

behind them, slicing

the light, separating it

into component colors,

component voices.

The crowd hears the noise,

a cacophony of languages,

these followers speaking

tongues they do not know,

tongues they do not understand.

The voices sweep the streets,

replacing the air with noise

of thunder and fire. Houses

and shops are burnished gold,

becoming the echoes

of the voices. Even

the dust has colors.

Photograph by Sabine Sauermaul via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.