The ballad of a windy Spring

Oh wind with your mighty fists,
who speaks of frozenness;
who sleeps inside her throat,
the singer's voice melts the iron
inside my bones,
melts it into a river of faces,
long ago.

Oh wind who whispers broken syllables
through young-green leaves,
weaving at unseen stars:
poets of the past, hanging bright
in their next season;
a slow waltz inside a galactic dream,
or perhaps a plot of demons.

Oh wind who moves graciously
inside tulip's hungry mouths;
whose blood did they drink,
to obtain their reddish colours?
What fires ignite your pen, what inks
drop from your loomy tongue?