The wind-spirit sifts the leaves and branches.
The grasses sing and warp, they obey the dreaming sun.
My eyes are blind, but my ears see far.
The crow calls his mate, to raise a nest from fallen sticks.
But mine will never answer.
I cannot move or travel, but my spirit flies the wind.
Far away she sleeps. Never speaking any more.
Far away she forgets me. My bones, whispering her name.