Last Year's Wind
I went West to frequent 'civilisation'
and stared in sorrow.
Words cannot utter what I saw
out on the lonely city moor.
Those faces, anxious,
on beds of straw.
I left, grief overladen,
with ups and downs, far and wide
at all the places.
For behind the painted curtains
only black dust flies
while the west wind rose from under rocks
and the night air walked on fallen trees.
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