Go away! said the north wind,
It's my turn to sing.
And trembling,
surprised by the anger in the command,
not daring
to linger,
disconcerted, my songs
have been kicked out
by the bullying cold.

Rain. They send me away
whatever I try
to do, all my songs
are the wrong ones.
The comedy's over.
I call to the swallows -
Time we were off.

Hailstones. Wind.
The scraggy branches
twist in the trees.
In the distance
the smoke hurries white
over a grey sky.

Last pallor of gold
lies on the cold slopes.
The air through the keyhole
blows on my hand.