Who can say what words the wind has spoken,
when cast out in the night, it has its say?
Its speech slips out in whispers, clipped and broken.
Who can say
what language that it speaks, to curse, or pray;
and what translation key exists, what token,
to know its words, first heard at break of day?
So many lonely years it speaks, heartbroken,
unanswered in misunderstood wordplay.
What conversation passes with the woken?
Who can say?
12 MAY 2017
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