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.

Pen scratches to scroll

Pen scratches to scroll;

the woman brings the bowl, the jug

as he waves her away:

the words flow too well.

The scratches are the only sound

as the pen stains the scroll

with words,

a precise hand without

ornate flourishes.

The point is not to write

what will impress the eye

the point is to write

what will be read,

always.

Photograph by Teodoro S. Gruhl via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.