Too many words, it seems,
have been cast to the winds:
the wind is so sharp.
Too many times, it seems,
have our heads been in the clouds:
the sky is so grey.
Too many of us, it seems,
have been through fire:
the leaves are ablaze.
Too much water, it seems,
has passed under the bridge
since we lost our common tongue:
the water wants to freeze so still.
How many more talents
must we bury in the ever-chillier earth
for spring
to come again?