Wind rushes wind slows and breezes, on hot days tiggles and teasers. You art to me a memory of sweet lemon juice and sparkles.
You art to me the song bird that flys but never stops or circles.
In mine moment thou hast passed with thou song upon thee wind. A sound so sweet but yet so short that one is lost upon its end.
In mine mind as times go by I wonder did I really hear thine song. Shimmering shadows of thine smile are all but long days gone.
You art to me a seed planted in very shallowed ground, a preferred beauty in mine heart I wished I never found.
I hate the bird or the short planted seed, I hate the fading thought of memories of thee.
But mine ears did hear'st thy sweet song upon the wind up above. And for those moments for that short time my hate is also love.