In the vague area between winter and spring

Between death and life unchanging,

Comes the shifting of the forbidden winds,

And death and life, at once there, then here,

Flee from the unsolicited of the night

Whose wrath encompasses Eternity.

An anger whose strength matches that of

The unseen wind, forever doomed to travel

The surface of the Earth alone, always taking

The same paved road, choked with the dust

Of many who have come before, and did the same.

The wind originated before time, after time, Nevertime,

 For a circle never ends, and Therefore it never begins.

Just off the dusty rut, to the left and right, above and below,

In the midst of nothing that is conceived to be real

The wind that dares to shift from its preordained path,

Will find itself in the secret garden filled with razor-sharp eyes

Where deceiving looks are truths untold

Held secretively to the speculations of the Hidden,

In the bud of a single rose and the half-hearted glint of sunlight.

If, if the sunlight finds its way through the mossy labyrinth

The mist of many winds will vanish,

Leaving the road to the mercy of the dead leaves

Who inhabit the bush, the tree, the burrow with equal ferocity,

who will only be dislodged when The Winds again flow,

caressing the perpetual blossoms of Winter.

Here, then there, always following and being followed

By that which seeks both escape and capture

From the coming Spring and the redeeming rain.

Shall we follow the Path of the Wind?

Quickly now, quickly!  Over, under, above!

To the garden of eyes we go, following that which

We were always doomed to follow,

Yet having the choice and choosing not to take it

Proves only the ineptitude of nonchalance.

The clever know not the choice, while the foolish are aware

Of their tread upon the path of the Old Ways where

The beginning of time and the end of time

Can be found when earth meets sky

When Dante's Heaven meets Lucifer's Hell…

Part of the inbetween, where fools rule and the wise follow,

Where, a man lives his life, entrusting it to the never-ending breezes,

While vainly searching betwixt woe and bliss, unrealities,

For that which he thinks he needs, a lost life

 That never even began, instead, ending before it began,

Starting a chain of events where immortality

Will be the curse of time and mortality

The anathema of immortals

Who die only when the circle ends.