The Wind

Somewhere, the wind waits to be born.
It is pale and cloudy there,
on a high and sharp mountainside
where it is not yet warm enough to move.

Here in the valley, the wind is blowing gently,
It is bright and clear through the trees
in the middle of the sun and earth
and apples sweet and blushed.

Tomorrow the wind will die
in the frozen eye of dawn
and I will wrap myself in a black shawl
and blow out a black candle.

I have learned the way of the wind
and hold her in the sail of my will.
Yet, like her I am only passing
and will write of me what can be read
only by
a winged and fleeting eye.