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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528180" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Morning of the Hurricanes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Horsemen, holding broken reins<br>The Morning of the Hurricanes, <br>Sigh 'it's no use, it's all in vain, <br> The King will soon surrender'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Bishops weep, the Rook's long gone, <br>And Pieces, pacing, pale and wan, <br>Watch Queen be ravaged Pawn by Pawn, <br> Her Knight dares not defend her</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They wonder why they ever came, <br>They have No One that they can blame, <br>They have no face, they have no name, <br> They're black and white, transgender</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The feeble minded Cleric clowns, <br>Mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds, <br>While Fantom of the Opera frowns, <br> And follows dazed dissenters</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The empty handed Vagabond<br>Smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes<br>While wailing at the walls beyond, <br> And kneels before he enters</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He's gaping through stained window panes, <br>While waiting for the Hurricanes, <br>He's spinning round and round in chains, <br> 	Attached to life's tormentors </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Savants serve the underfed<br>While Jackals jape at saws once said, <br>And Crows, collecting scattered bread, <br> Adorn, with crumbs, the platter</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Pirate whets his wooden leg, <br>With pupils dull and visage vague, <br>And if instead he's served the plague, <br> It really doesn't matter</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His Princess, pale, no longer reigns, <br>She's hiding from, the Dwarf explains, <br>The coming of the Hurricanes<br> The Stones stare, pointing at her</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The rustic clocks with spindled spokes<br>Remind the Mimes to tell the Folks<br>The time of day and other jokes, <br> But No One looks to listen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Jokers wild and One Eyed Janes, <br>Weep, winding up the rundown trains<br>Mid whispers of the Hurricanes, <br> And Priests no longer christen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They're running round in marathons, <br>With cuckoo birds and dying swans.<br>While pitching pennies into ponds<br> Their eyes opaquely glisten</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Beggars, neath the balustrades, <br>With bitter Children, Chambermaids, <br>Are darning socks with broken spades<br> As screams in dreams redouble</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They're spinning wool with endless threads, <br>Crocheting hats to hide their heads<br>They have no coats, they have no beds, <br> Their faces, full of rubble</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But many things will not remain<br>The Morning of the Hurricanes, <br>When goblets filled with cool champagnes<br> Implode on purple bubbles</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The White-Robed Maiden empties trash, <br>And fumbles with an untied sash, <br>- Her virgin urn's awash with ash -<br> She's pacing in the Palace</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her hopes converge in coffee spoons, <br>Her memories adrift in dunes, <br>Yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes, <br> And lips of painted callous</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And long before the midnight drains<br>- The Saviour wakes, the Loser gains -<br>The waters of the Hurricanes<br> Will fill her empty chalice</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The storm behind the clarinets, <br>The silver flutes, the castanets, <br>The foghorns belching in quartets, <br> The bagpipes, puffed and swollen, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is keeping time to tambourines<br>While Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens, <br>They curse themselves and philistines, <br> For time they've lost or stolen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They stumble through the old domains, <br>They cannot stop the Hurricanes -<br>The fountain weeps, the mountain wanes, <br> And sands just keep on rollin'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Hunchbacks juggle twisted canes<br>And blanch before the Hurricanes<br>In melted sleet, in frozen rains, <br> In bruised and battered sandals</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They'll groan within the land of gulls, <br>The land of stones, the land of nulls, <br>They'll crawl between the blackened lulls, <br> For Night Time brooks no candles</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They'll pray to Dogs, while Nuns and Dukes, <br>Reflect on long forgotten Spooks -<br>It's really more than random flukes<br> That doors are lacking handles</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Crowds are throbbing in the jails, <br>Stooped, peering through a fence of nails -<br>The light within their eyeballs pales<br> With plastic flame that sputters</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They're sleeping there because they must, <br>Their eyelids hang like peeling rust, <br>Their tears, palled pellets in the dust, <br> Behind the bolted shutters</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They'll reawake without their pains<br>The Morning of the Hurricanes, <br>Without their sores, without their stains, <br>Their agonies will fill the drains<br> And overflow the gutters</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Terry+O%27Leary">Terry O'Leary</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528180" data-title="The Morning of the Hurricanes de Terry O'Leary" data-description="The Horsemen, holding broken reins
The Morning of the Hurricanes, 
Sigh 'it's no use, it's all in vain, 
 The King will soon surrender'

The Bishops weep, the Rook's long gone, 
And Pieces, pacing, pale and wan, 
Watch Queen be ravaged Pawn by Paw..."></div>
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