In the Storm's Mother Tongue

If I could gaze into the eyes of a storm,
I did rip off its safety pins, dipping myself in its blueprints.
My safety jacket, I did put away, among a heap of charlatans.
So we swell and whirl together, the storm and I,
And ridicule our powerful limbs, locked in frenzy,
of a new tapestry, dancing to a song, in the storm's mother tongue.
I did invade its rascality with undaunting oars.
I did self-arm and re-up, to become an eruption.
Little leftovers will I have for worries.
Photos of my imagination will grow on every tree.
Earth will snore calmly, like an infant, after its nurse has sung it to sleep.
I know, no longer will I name him after resilience,
We will put a name to every whirl and stir.
Next time there is a storm, it would be I, staging a come back.