The wind is singing today, John.
Its melody is strong and true, yet sad—
Does it know the hymns of my heart?
Whish! Whish! Whish!
It unsettles the branches, calling for me to hurry—
Hurry, hurry!
But I walk slowly, to make time lose speed,
To make destiny wait for as long as it can.
The light of morn is breaking,
And the golden sun illuminates your face.
Oh, beautiful face!
At your tender smile, my heart is torn.
I want to sing to you the sweet sad song of the maidens
Who must send their lovers off into war—
But instead I bend down to brush your hair,
Sink into the curve of your rough strong hand.
I have never questioned the Great Spirit before,
But now I begin to wonder
How the great Plan can be for us to live apart.
And yet—
And yet—
The song of peace that fills the air
My mother's voice in the choir of spirits
The great, splendid dawn above us
The faces of my people and yours
The sound of your heartbeat, no longer faint
I know this path is true.
Let me kiss you, John Smith
And burn the shape of your lips onto mine.
Let me hold you,
And learn the form of your body by heart.
Whisper to me,
That the sound of your voice will echo, ever in my mind.
Touch my fingertips,
That my hand will never lose hold of yours.
Stay! Oh, stay! sings the wind,
The wind that knows the hymns of my heart.
But you're going, going, going
And I am running,
Hurry, hurry!
My feet pounding like the beat of drums.
The sails are like clouds in a shell-pink sky
A breeze fills them, pushing them onward.
I will add my song, John, to carry you through.
I'll miss you, my lover.
Farewell, dear friend.
Yet not for forever—
You'll see me again.
