Logos

The wind blew down from the mountains,
Swept down from the high places
To move the stale, repugnant air
In which we struggled to breathe;
Came and went, roared through us,
And every man was compelled to act.
Some felt the wind's clear chill
And turned their backs, preferring
The warmth of the decay around them.
Some felt its driving strength,
And sought shelter, lest
It overthrow the order they had contrived.
But some, like I, turned and breathed
Deep the sharp pain of fresh air.
It purified, flushing out old poisons,
Replacing them with a wholeness thought lost forever.
I do not know just where the wind came from
Or where it went. It passed on.
But that which I breathed in
Remains within, setting me apart,
No longer content with what once satisfied.
I am become a stranger in my world
A pilgrimin a foreign land
To which I no longer belong.
I'm passing through, journeying to a place
Where I shall fit in.
The high places of the wind.