Misky Braendeholm

I.
This wind is living bound.
A reinless writhe through clouds.
It rises up a king, then falls a blossom.
Spent. Torn. Sore. Until it returns.

II.
Writhe songs in hollowed trees.
Flutes heard where restless birds
brood with torn and blossom clouds.
This wind is living bound.

III.
Rise, and fall. Spent, forlorn and dim.
This wind is living bound.
Casting seeds broad to seasons
in leafy shrouds of fog-lost sound.

IV.
Restless, reinless writhe of wind,
flutes that whip and bind a song,
rise and fall so sore and dim,
this wind is living bound.