The wind grows soft and dry
It passes messages fast forgotten
For in its speed, it is lost
The pines whistle, men stay to listen
When the fruits fall off the trees
It thunders upon the quiet ground
And little stray ants wonder
If the world had come to an end
If Grapes ever had loved
The thought would be, but who?
Would it be the strange sops
Or the ever table-sitting red tomato?
If the Sun stays late to rise
The clouds turn solemn and sad
And when I ponder on the gloom
I understand the plight of the world
If metals I and friends are to be
Gold, silver, variants all certain
Diamonds glittering in the pitch dark
An abstract I shall become behind the curtain
