Would the wind transport my words
as tenderly as that of the leaves
fallen out of fate than of fever.
Yet they do not wish to leave as I,
or do they? For perhaps they do.
Longingly unhinged from the horizon
Do they look upon the sun wistfully
as I; is it them who whisper
whilst the wind wisps them closer
to the chase they desire.
For the more delicate skeletons
to touch the floor is to pronounce the end.