William W. Sloan
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Where Goes The Wind?
The gray clouds of life boiling within the breast,
following closely behind the clattering thunder,
and all the rest.
A bird sang a mournful song when the south wind blew north,
lost in his way, when pierced through the clouds,
the sun came forth.
The dew on the tree, like teardrops that fall,
The crest of the wave with head held tall.
Where goes the wind as it brushes by my face?
I look to the globe, and with my finger, I trace.