because last night
the wind was wild,
wilder
and wildest,
Ciara paid me a visit,
not for a few minutes,
but all night long,
she kept singing her frightening wild song,
not on the Mount Everest in the Himalaya,
nor along the Swanee River in Australia,
but viewing the mountainrange,
this is of course for a change,
the Kilimanjaro mountainrange,
where the snow posed for Hemingway,
during one of his dry painful days
in a way,
Helen stepped out of their strife,
since Harry did not know to decide,
vermouth with ice on the rocks,
or just plain simple Serfauser rhum,
to be skiing ‘herum'(=around)
after you’ve drunk it,
you’ll surely hear the African drums
next time I’ll explain about the sound,
for now my thoughts are abound
I assure you now
presenting this poetry enigma somehow,
is all because of Ciara and her whistling Opera,
indeed, a haunting dilemma,
singing and whistling all night long,
haunting and ghostly her frantic song,
she is lunatic,
non poetic,
and she is still here,
this eerie wildest atmosphere,
originally from Ireland and the rest,
she still manifests,
Ciara is still frenzy,
screaming all over the country….
(please, read Sequel 2)
©Sylvia Frances Chan

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