| Whispering a spell on me
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| Until I heard
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| Now I see shapes in the low light
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| The earth quakes in the twilight
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| I see flames in my calm life
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| I hear the wind’s dark poem:
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| (wind speaks:)
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| You can see from above, the rocks sticking out of
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| The yard behind the house make stone constellations
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| Half-buried in the dusk, the unformed stories
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| Coming to life while I sleep
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| The breath moves branches saying words that I
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| Don’t know, a new poem
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| A song I sang in a dream
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| The lights of town faint
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| Something is exhaling in the sound of traffic, far away. |
| Something’s happening
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| Wind’s dark poem describes
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| Calligraphy of branches writes
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| Stone constellation alive
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| The house is built on a boulder
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| Soil returns to the wind
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| Bones will blow in pink light
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| The distant sound is saying my name
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| The wind is taking pieces
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| Wind’s Dark Poem is about the constantly roaring
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| Decay, the destruction of every day
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| And every morning’s waking
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| But:
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| Even as spring is bringing
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| Blossoms back among leaves
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| The cold wind blows when night falls
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| And the bare branches bend |