Whilst wearied by the concerted onslaughts of corrupted governance, police brutality and unrestrained gang violence, Hong Kong was graced by Typhoon Wipha on 31st July, 2019, a heaven-sent respite from the prolonged pandemonium. I spent the afternoon watching a windswept forest nearby from the comfort of my home.
Thick clouds swallowed up the midday sun.
Flickering menace, rumbling spite,
They glared down at the darkened earth.
Is there movement in the stagnant air?
Is there ripple across the silent seas?
With teary faces lifted heavenwards
And bruised arms raised in childlike faith,
The saplings beseeched the storm to surge.
Is there wind to clear the toxic draft?
Is there rain to wash the bloodstained land?
The sky pattered down a melody, a tune
Strummed upon the tattered trunks and twigs,
Lamentation amidst the howling winds.
Is there thunder to muffle the calls of hate?
Is there dew to dampen the sins of man?
The tempest cradled both the fresh and withered;
The upright, the frail, the lofty and small,
The torrent raged and drenched them all.
Is there light in the midst of turbulence?
Is there eye in the storm to see us through?
I saw a forest of linked arms and hearts,
A canopy of one collective mind,
Like a sea of umbrellas under fire,
Holding out for the storm to pass,
Holding out for the sun to shine.