How Quiet is the Wind
The storm has passed, the wind’s a silent ghost,
when passion dies, we search our past for pleasure;
of vanity we never care to boast,
and fleeting things become our buried treasure.
Affection once beheld our young keen eye,
concealed in emptiness when age is ripe,
the soul is battered, the spirit won’t comply,
and wrinkles deep within starve one of life.
But age can speak of wisdom without greed,
for fewer entertainments are required,
the gratitude of peace is now agreed
where inner sweet contentment is inspired.
With tired eyes the world’s too fast to view,
and with a gust of wind, our life withdrew.
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