A green lanceolate sight
                                            enlightens this afternoon.
                                            A soft current
                                            finds its way
                                            through the countless
                                            leaves.

                                            I trance in that tremor
                                            on the high tops
                                            of the trees,
                                            but it’s just the wind
                                            brought from some monsoon
                                            afar,
                                            as far as we beholders
                                            are
                                            to produce pendulums
                                            out of bird nests
                                            and beehives.

                                            (There’s no blowing whisper,
                                            no caress on the cheek,
                                            no fingers through your hair,
                                            no kiss,
                                            no anthropomorfized Zephyrus
                                            in your April.)

                                            (Here)
                                            there’s just the breeze.