windy

The breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words__he bride__nd spaces__he groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it__ yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat__ others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Close your eyes and turn your face into the wind.Feel it sweep along your skin in an invisible ocean of exult

The lamp hummed:'Regard the moon,La lune ne garde aucune rancune,She winks a feeble eye,She smiles into corners.She smoothes the hair of the grass.The moon has lost her memory.A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,Her hand twists a paper rose,That smells of dust and old Cologne,She is aloneWith all the old nocturnal smellsThat cross and cross across her brain."The reminiscence comesOf sunless dry geraniumsAnd dust in crevices,Smells of chestnuts in the streets,And female smells in shuttered rooms,And cigarettes in corridorsAnd cocktail smells in bars.

Sometime I wonder why I walk alone on this cold, windy road. Maybe I have no one to love or no one love me at all?

Oh, mightiest wind,wilt thou cease thy breathing inand hold thy exhales?

The wind is made of haunting souls that moan and groan in whistles and whispers. This ghostly choir chills the breeze and orchestrates a rise of goose bumps on my skin.