Wind, I have cried to you to cease your blowing.
A cry which fell only to deaf ears. There, from amongst the calm of the night, when you have taken up in billows against the silk of the sea, I have cried to you to cease your blowing.
Do you hear, can you see?
The direction of this ship was set amongst still waters and its course carefully planned with each cliff and danger mapped with great care.
Alas, your might rose up from the depths of the earth to consume the ship in its whole. Was your intention, my most despondent foe, to destroy it by dashing its hull upon a rock laden shore? Do you seek to throw it thousands of miles off course, only to watch it wander back to the place where it once started?
This cruel reply is not always warranted, dear wind. It is in those nights of sorrow and fog that your soft song wafts slowly through the fields, lifting darkness as you meander lightly through. That whisper, so gently caressing, is a welcome friend.
Now then, neither are you foe nor can you be friend, how must then I address you? Can I call to you? Do you return from whence you came, can you be beckoned upon a whim?
Oh, but we must live with you and your ever changing mood. The fierce growl of a storm which was once a soft purr of a gentle afternoon, only changed by a fleeting minute.
A cry which fell only to deaf ears. There, from amongst the calm of the night, when you have taken up in billows against the silk of the sea, I have cried to you to cease your blowing.
Do you hear, can you see?
The direction of this ship was set amongst still waters and its course carefully planned with each cliff and danger mapped with great care.
Alas, your might rose up from the depths of the earth to consume the ship in its whole. Was your intention, my most despondent foe, to destroy it by dashing its hull upon a rock laden shore? Do you seek to throw it thousands of miles off course, only to watch it wander back to the place where it once started?
This cruel reply is not always warranted, dear wind. It is in those nights of sorrow and fog that your soft song wafts slowly through the fields, lifting darkness as you meander lightly through. That whisper, so gently caressing, is a welcome friend.
Now then, neither are you foe nor can you be friend, how must then I address you? Can I call to you? Do you return from whence you came, can you be beckoned upon a whim?
Oh, but we must live with you and your ever changing mood. The fierce growl of a storm which was once a soft purr of a gentle afternoon, only changed by a fleeting minute.
RSS Feed
