Upon an eighth floor balcony,
the wind whispers, such, silent screams.

He decides, under the moons beams:
to the gusts, he longer wishes to talk.
He rises to the edge, as the winds mock:
feet leaving the ledge, he begins,
  duskdreaming, pondering,

'I wonder, of the streams-
  in B.C.- in which does her heart lie?'

Upon the concrete sidewalk
below the eighth floor balcony:
  the wind's whisperous screams
   have been silenced, so it seems.