The warm winds touch the troubled trees
To bless them with beatific breeze.
This sends the branches softly swaying,
In silhouette, like nuns all praying.
They blow down every silent street,
But fear no stranger they may meet.
They haunt, but not like ghost, who’s gliding;
As royalty, proud winds go riding!
The winds sometimes will hold their breath,
Like damned, before their date with death.
They mock the midnight moon by howling,
Pursue their prey as panther prowling.
On silent seas they stir a storm,
So sailors sleeping safe and warm
Will rise, from fear, and feign devotion,
To seek the Lord of winds and ocean.
The fresh winds kiss my fevered face.
Upon my troubled brow they place
Cool fingers, Heaven’s bliss bestowing,
Unconsciously, without their knowing!