The wind
will not stop sighing.
Its words are insistent and foreign,
hour after hour...
It runs through fields
and sprints through trees,
caressing the night into day.
It tries to summon or warn me...
to tell me of something
I cannot,
on my own,
perceive.
The wind will not stop sighing
as it slides across the cold waters
bending the brown grass marshes,
imploring roving tails of thrushes
of some emphatic, unrelenting news.
The wind will not stop sighing.
It will not close its appeals around me,
nor gather its clothes and leave.
Beneath the pall of such a dark fortune,
I can't explain or understand
that which lies beyond
my grasp.