• The air is filled with the cries of the wind,
    And oh! How satisfying it is to feel its brilliance
    Ripple up my skin and oh! How my heart shudders
    When it leaves, making the air sterile and alone.

    My hand feels the vibrancy and the substance,
    The texture of my pleasure so unsurely courageous.
    The wind picks up its tune once again
    For its audience to listen in.

    The whisper in the wind, confusing the hairs of my neck,
    Is for me and me alone, of that I am sure,
    Why then would it give its brilliance to another,
    When their ears cannot even pick out the tune?

    The violin case at my feet,
    The very construct of this orchestra,
    With fabric so soft as to rival the beauty in the wind itself,
    Masks, I regret to say, the true voice of this mad world:

    A cold, unflamed void made of darkness and contempt,
    And in it: the desire for more voices in the wind to occupy its dreams