Who drives the wind?
The battered steppes in the North
Stand mute with cracked lips.
Where the roar of ocean crash resounds,
The wind whips like some old tyrant.
He whistles, remembering her pleasant face,
Long dead.
Then he takes up the whip and whistles some more,
As he strikes lightning on the tattered shore.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
Who drives the wind?
The battered steppes in the North
Stand mute with cracked lips.
Where the roar of ocean crash resounds,
The wind whips like some old tyrant.
He whistles, remembering her pleasant face,
Long dead.
Then he takes up the whip and whistles some more,
As he strikes lightning on the tattered shore.
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