Silent is the wind,
A faint and wistful rapping;
A swift and fleeting bird,
A slight persistent tapping.

Light and free and sweet,
Or a strong resounding battle,
The wind is many things;
A dark and dreary battle.

When left to slink away,
When its time is finally done,
The wind easily surrenders power,
To the merciless, glorious, sun.

But when wind, like life, is troubled,
The clouds may hide the light,
When the gusts are strong,
One must always pose a fight.

For the beauty of the world
In all of its flawed glory,
Must be happy and sad,
Lest it be a boring story.