The wind whistles overhead,
now loud, now low,
sounding rather melancholy,
rather foreboding.

                        An old man
totters past me,
his hand holding on tightly
to his thick, cotton-padded cap
while the wind goes on whistling . . .

The wind whistles inside my ears,
now strong, now weak,
sounding rather solemn,
rather wild.

        A child coming home from school
runs past me, laughing with delight;
a handful of coloured paper scraps
at once dances through the air
while the wind goes on whistling . . .

Suddenly, I feel an inexpressible joy:
        my black hair
is ruffled in the wind,
is singing in the wind.

1980