Love and Hate

When the wind runs
through the fingers,
when the sand is kicked up far,
when the night of
endless whispers
and the days of dreamy stars,
wither out with but no trace
from the steely hate of gaze
and the broken empty pot of heart,
cries out with bridled rage.

When the mask in man is torn,
and the weight of life is borne,
when the people keep on stealing
thoughts undeserved and out of tone,
when the flowers rust in peace,
in the falling might of trees
and an endless screaming wail
hits home
in a leaden hollow wheeze...

Will this throbbing ever stop?
In the vacant sea of hearts?
Will the winter wind turn green
rush as the summer brushes clean?
Will the spiders of our past
clean out the cobwebs off the lost?

Will the winter wind turn green, rush as the summer brushes clean?

I just want to know. Why?