You can’t hear the wind
Only what it hits.
You can feel the wind
As it hits you
In the face
Saying I am here
Hot and cold
Dry and wet
It hits
Gentle and comforting
Fresh and fragrant
From what it hits
No it is quiet as a breeze
Silently blowing
Until it hits the trees
Who whistle hum and sing
That we begin hearing
The Wind
In the near future, the Pythagoreans, under the ancient transmutator Krotas, resurrect Plato through Artificial Intelligence. The machine seizes the city, erects The Republic and the New Academy, and convicts poetry of Mimesis. The Makars are to be banished. A poem in four elements, told in an immersive descent and scored by the album below.
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