For I had lost the hope and will,
Surrendered to the bloody drill,
Where I was none but commonplace,
With a humdrum smile and hollow face.
When had I lost my passion to live?
Placate my thoughts, forgo, forgive?
Where was that innocent gullible joy,
Of dreams of love in a virginal boy?
Why did I age across my tomb,
When I was waging to mamma’s womb?
But then my thoughts were brushed aside,
By swishing wind that proddedly pried.
It hummed to me in a monotonous flow,
“When I get cold, I stoop below.
But when I gain energy and heat,
I carry myself to a hundred feet.
I find this heat in fire and earth,
Those I conquer, beget my birth.”
It was then I found the courage in me,
To close my eyes to insipidity.
For all the vision I had needed to walk,
Was in the thought that the wind could talk.