Swift wind, heaven high, summer’s cry of grief
The Golden sky’s water has fallen, autumn clouds
Approach, like a morning scene good and fine
The pear tree on the hill has little fed flowers
Seasons stir an endless shed of leaves
Summer frustrating into Autumn, whitening temples
Etched into temporary memory
For everything is temporary, I climb
The terrace alone, to abandon my cup
Of cloudy wine, the winds surge on
Many new ghosts cry to me, soon
The snow will dance in the whirling wind
To many places, communication will be broken
I will find myself in music such as only go to
The Heavens above, I will be not heard
And everything we spoke about last
Night under the moon will be forever not recorded
Through the gates I slowly walk to the end.
Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 