The fiendish wind forbids the door
from opening beyond an inch:

its muscles crushing impetus
with twice the force, as if to say,

"You'll not be leaving here today,
and you don't want me as a guest!"

I should be glad: this room - this house
- would rupture had I won the round,

the door unlikely to be closed,
subjecting all to unhinged rage

almost like Pandora's box,
except for Hope she had retained:

this tempest wails without refrain,
and so, for now, we will remain.