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The Wind-Child

Rating: 3.4

MY FOLK’S the wind-folk, it’s there I belong,
I tread the earth below them, and the earth does me wrong,
Before my spirit knew itself, before this frame unfurled,
I was a little wandering breeze and blew about the world.
The winds of the morning that breathe against my cheek
Are kisses of comfort from a love too great to speak;
The whimpering airs that cry by night and never find their rest
Are sobbing to be taken in and soothed upon my breast.
The storm through the mountains, the tempest from the sea,
That ride their cloudy horses and take no thought of me,

They are my noble brothers that hasten to the fight,
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Seema Jayaraman 15 September 2015

Such a great piece of work

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Edward Kofi Louis 15 September 2015

The whimpering airs that cry! with the muse of nature at work. Nice peice.

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Rahman Henry 15 September 2015

’But the wind-folk is my folk, and some day I’ll go.’ Beautiful poem. I like this.

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Kinyua Karanja 15 September 2015

Multithemed poem on love and departure from this world, so sweet, so nice.

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