The South wind is calling,

the granaries are full and thick

with Summer’s promise.

The hills have grown ripe

since our last meeting,

the golden swaying of wheat

seems more pronounced.

It seems I paid attention

more to the brush of your hair

across a silken face,

than I did to the fall

of old leaves.

And the sight of your eyes,

sparkling with desires in blue

and gazing into my soul,

once captivated me more

than the call

of a stilled breeze.

Yet today,

the barren hills have risen

and as far as the eye can see

there is wheat,

and new crops…

and yesterday,

I saw what I would,

when the season was ending

and reason had slipped

down amongst the flowers.