Keep reins on your soul as the gentle wind blows.
Hold your hats as the wind shears through the plaits.

It comes........ it turns, never beckons or lurks.......
Hang on to your shirt for what the tailor had served

It sweeps this land of rough dirt and soil,
Precarious toils of man's sweat and broil

There is no rule of truth......
Arduous tasks of fields churned and chewed.
No man beast or fool that is exception to rule

We see it no more than the air on the moor,
Lest it summons a rage, then fidgets the grain .

It cannot be caged,
Like a bird or a mule it cries like a ghoul

Howling it be....it calls the rain to cause more pain.
Then behold.....a whisper I hear..... as it trills around my ear.

All playful it seems from a gentle breeze; as it rocks the leaves,
As windmills creak and floating clouds fleece

A wisp on a leaf as an insect flees.
Then all is still as the land bows and kneels

To the god at it's heel which devours, even man at the wheel.
So let the simple weed flourish all scattered and nourished
Pray to the winds that replenish our sins

By George