Echoing calmly, effortless the wind goes by
and makes the day rush on, not in time but in sound,
in the hearing of an ear in which the world appears,
in the moments shuddering on to a beat, beat, beat,
that the brain sets to creep through time and survive;
while I notice all this and still only simply desire to hear,
at war with a habit of a selective mind,
always seeking, never finding, married to passions strong and weak,
the unknown, unseen blind navigator we all keep -
and I long only to listen,
  to listen to the breeze on the bright summer's day;
to escape the halls of the prison,
  deaf to the torments of life fleeing death's old sway.

Featured image: ‘West Wind,’ by George Bellows (September 1913), image in the public domain.

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