A windy poem cause it's a windstorm outside ~

Windstorm,
It's like autumn again.
Distorted between two hemispheres, the climate is no longer
the same. Winter has passed, but despite the warmth of spring,
The cold autumn wind has begun again. The dead still prowl in the
whisper of gale. Their calls for justice, for love, for solitude, and
revenge echo lost in the colorful sound of the cities.
The same sun that burns scorching in the morning
abandons us to the cruel nightly freeze.
The kind which pierces the third layer of skin like pincers.
From which we don't know if it's ice or sleep, but if we sleep, we don't wake up.
But with autumn struggling to emerge,
the plants continue to sleep, so sleep won't be
an option; an empty stomach has no sleep.
The cycle of life is progressively corrupted;
everything remains in change,
with no time to stop or move.
The weather returns endlessly, flowing from self to itself, far away from everything,
carrying our lives and memories. Erasing nostalgia like a knightly duty,
nothing will ever be the same again. That river will never be so full again,
that land will never be so fertile again, the rain will only come to flood,
cover, drown. Water or its absence have different meanings.
So to let the earth have her vengeance too.
And yet the birds scream, the cats run, the parrots perch on the lampposts,
The horns of cars honk and never stop, the noise remains inert,
impassive to change,
no, it is coy, stupid, pretending not to see.
While everything begins and begins again within itself. The noise does not hear,
screams but does not listen.
It smiles and never cries.
It just screams and shouts and yells
Until it takes a bullet to the head.
So it continues to scream
its lamentations into the wind.
Forced to see this, it cries,
it finally calls its lamentations. Being part of the
Dead in the gale, might be our last working cycle
If the weather doesn’t work anymore
May death be our only constant at last,
May we never blow her away in our wind
May the ever changing future
Never takes what makes us both mortals and
Souls, both human and ghost,
Stupid, vain, noisy, Idiots that laugh crying like a baby
May the ever changing future not be so bad for those howling ghosts
May death still take pitty on us, as the noise prevents the action
As the unheard lamentations
I pray. Death, please be kind.
Instead of howling nights
Grant us the motherly touch
So we can sleep in the windstorm at least.