Spring Winds, you carry her love,
but never her lips, never her touch.
If she loves me, let her come,
Gather the man I have become,
as the sea gathers the drowned—
softly, slowly, soundless, gone.

Let her know what the rain has done —
its sinful drops, fell sharp as thorn,
etched sorrow deep, sank sorrow in.
The rain carved wounds where none had been,
bled me white beneath a mourning sky.
Then winter, cruel archivist,
froze my wounds in jealous ice,
stole my fire in the dead of night,
and left me with nothing— but nothingness,
nothing— but trails of frost down my face.

Spring Winds, you carry her love,
but never her breath upon my neck,
never the river of her fingers through my hair.
If she loves me, let her come,
let me drink her deep as the earth drinks rain,
let her fall and drown me at last,
like snow flakes, melting soft upon my tongue.

And if she loved me all this while,
Why did she leave me to starve through the miles?
Tell her—if never she comes to my call,
let the wind wear my name from it all,
from the stone, from the sky and from her lips.
Let the earth take my bones and bury me deep,
let the dark pull me down where the lost ones sleep.

No more waiting. No more cries.
Let the night close my weary eyes.