Writhing with the rising tides,
tearing land out to churning sea.
Swaying to the raging gales,
whipping, thrashing gracefully.
Tip-toeing through the rubble,
branches break, twist and wring.
Weaving with the quaking earth,
engulfed in flames,
while dancing, always dancing.
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music. ― John Keats