My weathered hands are clasped before my chest.

My eyes are closed in solemn prayer,

To the mighty wind that blowes from the west.

To him I offer terrible nightmares:

nay,not nightmares, rather dreams gone awry,

Hopes,so naive, that did not come to pass,

my frustrattion has proved hard to carry,

Heavy and cuts likes bits of broken glass.

All this I present to Zephyr's fury,

For him to scatter and leave not one trace.

He is an ocean to a stream gone blurry;

He cleanses the water once full of waste.

Such am I: of pain I yearn to be pure,

Now I bid farewell to mem'ries of you.