THE WHISTLING WIND Comments

The wind whistles overhead,
now loud, now low,
sounding rather melancholy,
rather foreboding.

An old man
totters past me,
his hand holding on tightly
to his thick, cotton-padded cap
while the wind goes on whistling . . .

The wind whistles inside my ears,
now strong, now weak,
sounding rather solemn,
rather wild.

A child coming home from school
runs past me, laughing with delight;
a handful of coloured paper scraps
at once dances through the air
while the wind goes on whistling . . .

Suddenly, I feel an inexpressible joy:
my black hair
is ruffled in the wind,
is singing in the wind.

1980
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