The Wind of History

The wind that comes from history
whistles in our windows, boorish 
with the voice of know-it-all, been
there, done that, I'll tell you how it is...
with lessons to be learnt. Without a by-your-leave
it thunders with the energies
of yesterday's mistakes, it rattles 
every edifice and breaks each stony will,
tears iron gates from hinges
and whinges on until
the city's like a war zone
with yesterday's repeats. 
The past is round our necks, but still it isn't done:
it tears the very soul of now
from everything we've built
and drags it screaming from its place
into some future past.

The wind that comes from history
is air most rarefied: salvation
for near-drowning man -- though rare-
ly is that so. It brings a shift --
a seismic shift -- in how the world is planned,
but few there are who hear
in one in fifty thousand winds
the whisper that could be. Most times
the wind is whispering
past shouts of jeopardy.

It splatters on the pavements,
it batters city walls
and shatters every lingering hope
and all our unearned pride
until the nation falls.

It doesn't stop to bury
its corpses on its way
but hurries to the future
where it's other fry to slay.

Written for The Tess Kincaid prompt at Mag 156