Where does wind come from?
And where does it go?
I’m not really sure that the wind even knows.
May I ask you a favor?
When the time is right,
Take me where the wind blows.
A strange young man from far away
With clothing ragged, torn, and frayed,
Approached a maiden by the bay
Whereon the grassy shore she lay.
He kissed her hand and asked if they
Could dance beside the ocean’s spray.
Before she spoke, a soothing wave
Of pleasure and contentment paved
A trail they followed to the shade
Wherein he held her, and they swayed,
And formed their love from hallowed clay.
With him, she would not fall astray,
Or end up lost and in a daze.
Amazed, she questioned, “If I may;
Why dost thou act in such display?”
“My precious flow’r, you needn’t gray
And troubled skies for one to aid
Thee and surmise that no bouquet
Would serve a prize or could convey
Behind your eyes of radiant jade
What passion lies that we have made.
The ways of old, I have betrayed,
And thus thy wishes I obey.”
And then for every smile she made,
A rose he set across her gaze.
Each star above that they surveyed,
He kissed her cheek in doting play.
And if her lips did give him praise,
He furnished her a tender phrase.
They huddled ‘neath the moonlit haze
‘Til dew-drops claimed the break of day,
But morning wrought a somber shay.
His eyes were clouded, glazed, and gray.
Now old and weakened, down he lay.
She quivered as he withered away,
And watched wearily, his soul fade
With nothing more than this to say,
“Remember passion—love; I pray.
My dearest one, I long to stay,
But Fate binds me to my dismay.
I grieve no act, but parting ways,
As my wish was love for just one day.”