Like a bullet from a gun,
Across the evening sun,
Along each tired eye,
Silent and swift,
Or sometimes adrift
The mountain wind goes by.

Through the sleepy valleys,
And the village alleys,
Seeing the last man heave a sigh,
Breaking the silence,
With the dark alliance,
The mountain wind goes by.

Through the maze of pine,
Tiredness not its sign,
Witnessing the jackal’s cry,
Sometimes pleasant,
Sometimes turbulent,
The mountain wind goes by.

Along the golden rays,
With nature telling its ways,
And hearing the breakfast fry,
On the faces of the folk,
Like ice in a cloak,
The mountain wind goes by.

It was my night in the hills,
(And still remembering the midday stills),
To again taste the essence of it, I try,
To again feel the freshness,
To again savour the innocence,
As the mountain wind went by.