The black bamboo fronds reached high and low <br />Swinging to every blustery blow of the westerly <br />Up and down, to and fro, left and right <br />But rising to straighten not staying low for long <br />Like erect whips snapping lively at impassive clouds <br />Lashing out against phantom scars and imagined foes <br /> <br />With momentary lulls they spring back to uprightness <br />The tiny tenants at its lower branches stir and chirp <br />As if a siren sounded the respite and the return of the calm <br />The bamboo shed encrusted scales relieving the itch <br />Caused by the constant strain of heaving, stooping and rising <br />Then it stooped so low, creaked and broke its battered bole <br /> <br />Not even the sparrows at the bowers could, despite their cheering <br />Restore its poised air and proud bearing <br />The waste left by an unbending and unyielding pride <br />The litter of the green flaky rust lay on sodden floor <br />Who is to clean up? Who is to wield the broom? <br />No, not us. No, not the wind, not you nor I<br /><br />Eddie Roa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bamboo-in-the-wind/
