Dreams on Wind

My heart is heavy
Yet I have no way to express it
The words, queerly, will not sing

What is this slow death?
I may sit and contemplate,
but death waits 'round.

Where are my dreams?
They vanished, like
when the rounds of summer come
to burn away the white innocence
and colours burst forth
replacing the conquered purity
as though it were a foe

Some would call me tranquil
others might say depressed.
But I am merely confused.

The clocks tick away the time,
But what do they know
of grief and pain,
of sands blown away?

The words die in the air
before they are born in my heart
and I grope blindly, unknowingly,
for what is not there.