Oh curling breeze,
My valentine skybound,
Dance with me and pull me through the stars.
Dance with me through all the towns and bars.
Play my heart with your sweet summer notes.
God’s mandolin and his band of sky ghosts.
No deleterious deceit like the modern romance.
Take flight and dance, little angel,
Wisp of a breeze.
Sing songs morning nightingale and let the birds fly,
For only by your wind do their wings carry high.
Your quiet hush before a dilatory storm,
When I find the sky grey on a dismal April ‘morn,
When the smell of fresh dew sits on the lilacs in the field,
And the herds of young bison tear rivulets in the earth.
‘Tis the place you will find me,
Among the branches and trees,
Laughing uncontrollably;
I’ll scatter carelessly the happy seeds of destiny.
For if we only keep locked in our towers,
Only writing books and poems and other subjects for hours on hours;
We miss the basest joys enjoyed from Erectus to modern man.
We miss the curling breeze,
And for that I’m truly sad.
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