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What makes the bird sing,

Playfully like an April breeze,

Living freely,

Fluttering about in the Great Blue Sky.

Not standing the Dead of winter,

What happens in love,

Ends in death,

Despair,

Silence.

We are but bees,

In a captive hive,

You are the fire that warms me,

The desire for my shaking heart;

Your beauty and grace,  

So unimaginable yet,

As if it was a radiant glow,

Thus blows a wind,

Sharp as sand,

Cold as ice,

Hard as stone.

Thus blows a wind,

Softer than sheep,

Warm as the sun,

Smooth as slate.

 Calm is the wind,

 Never a dull blemish,

 Calloused into the land.

“Blunt the sword”,

 Cried the makers of peace,

Inhale,

Begin to sigh,

Climbing a ridge.

Exhale,

Falling back down,

Crunching all the way.