Praise to the wind breathing its great, long sigh.

It can travel anywhere, but returns nigh.

Its  warm, brazen chill does not hurt me,

But comforts me beside the willow tree.

 

Though the passive ground beats at my weak soles,

Wind only whispers voices of the old.

Refreshed am I after wind's quiet breeze,

But soon the pure wind's face has creased.

 

Foreign havoc disrupts my mellow mind,

And the leaves of the willow leave me blind.

Lost wood and metal soar onto my skin,

But what hurts most is the wind's foul sin.

 

Wind has betrayed me and the plants that grow,

With a beastly, viperous tornado.