There was a catastrophe in arm
With cyclone verda in low belly.
Till a weather expert would say,
The whoosh was minor breeze.
We have no bang theory poem.
If things turn bad, you go west.
God is in the mountainous west
If there is a narrow pass to pass.
Some times you wouldn’t know
The wind from breeze, trees fall.
Be tree when you fall from blue.
Lie down happily in broad sun.