“The Southern Wind is always slow”, they say,

“slow to bring us warmth, slow to drive out the frost.”

“He’s unreliable too”, another remarks,

“never consistent in arriving, never the same strength,

always hard to predict; stays too long one year,

goes too quickly the next.”

“If only he were like his brothers” they jeer,

“At least we know what they bring,

how long they stay, how strong they blow.

At least they give us consistency,

at least we know what will happen to us,

when they are about.”


“Why is the South Wind this way?”

“What sadness occupies him? What can be done to help?”

These things they never ask, and, as such, never learn;

they never learn of sweet Hyacinth – but that suits them

– they do not care to know.



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