Over

I told the man, I'd write a poem, right now, about the wind, but the strong warm breeze, blew my words away over the hills; and he smiled; a language understood, as if to say; " there go your words, blown away by the strong, warm breeze, across the dusty plain, the unsold land, the cattle's backs, and the crazy butting-goats" and when I turned and looked across the fetid table, he was a corpse; all yellowed, withered, dried up skin; and I was afraid: but then the voice of death said, "don't worry; I've gone to carry your words across the dusty plain, the unsold land, the cattle's backs, the crazy butting-goats", and as he faded into cirrus clouds, I looked across the sand on sand, the trees on trees, the thousand dancing, prancing fleas, the ragged-jagged tawny-breeze; and a windy whisper stirred in close, saying; " let him go, let him go, let him go".