I’ve ceased to be, but you’re alive
The wind is whimpering and sobbing.
It rocks the forest and the cabin.
Under its force, the trees are bending
In unison, not pine by pine,
Along with hills that seem unending,
Like wooden frames of yachts withstanding
The stormy gusts in the bay at night.
And all this not from reckless pride,
Or from a pointless, frenzied folly,
But to compose a lullaby
For you in time of melancholy.