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Voice of the Wind
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Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps, we go.
No voice bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait.
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
Copyright ©
Sara Etgen-Baker
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