Poetry: Ocean Game

The game gets boring after watching it non-stop for weeks and years.

“The wind on other hand…”

Again I’m visiting this ocean
in my mind, it’s empty spaces,
open field to play the ball
for the wind and starving birds.

The birds are programmed
plastic robots, following the trajectory
mastered through the ages
to survive, to dine, and reproduce.

The wind, on the other hand
is wild, unpredictable, unseen;
a hockey player in the ring
painting shapes of roses,
sometimes daggers on the ice.

That’s nice, I see,
advantage is clear
on one side,
but tell me what’s the price,
to win the game
and just display
your bragging rights,
while the world is whirling in tornado,
angry with deceit.

Poetry by Vladimir Fischer


Thank you very much for any help!



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