Recitative

The wind whispers,
I am a cold darkness,
you cannot keep me,
my fingers never close
but blow within locks,
an unwinding thread
of Earth's infancy,

I will gather
the fabric of seas,
and wrinkle fields,
I will breathe soft stitches
in the skin of clouds,
pulling them behind,
chariots billowing above
the beasts I quicken,

I will unrest the sleep
of your forest's peace,
my silver tongue tasting,
what hides within broken branches
of your mind,
the pulp of your heart scattered,
with splintered leaves,

I will rattle dust,
making sleeves of music,
whipping the throat of night,
making her cry for me,
so that I might console
each shadow's ear,
with my soft sympathy.