The spring wind is keen, all day keeping its lonely heart.
Bright sunlight ripples on my mind.
Not even one fine speck of dust.
 
But I know now of empty words,
as clever as the gadfly.
An endless peak of toiling
and ploughing, there is no release.
 
High and low a thousand shadows.
Each with no dreams, no shame.
And beside the river, a poets road
is slow – musing on lost time.