Nowhere over the ground,
nowhen—but who now cares…

Treating the dreams as wound,
reaching rich stars on stairs,
crying for what is over,
meaning the sense for clown,
glowering at the glove
which was throwing down—

  We don’t mind…
  We don’t mind…
    Zounds, it’s all God’s Will.
  Rustle, my Wind!
  Stir, my Wind!
    It’s all—only the wind on the mill.

Hear the voice of widow.
Cry on your own cemetery.
View through the broken window
is a sigh of our century.
Who nowadays does matter,
smiling at creatures in tears?
Nowhen is all over. Latter
Nobody promises (swears.)

  Don’t ever mind…
  Don’t ever mind…
    All around is just God’s Will.
  Shout, my Wind!
  Rage, my Wind!
    Everywhere is the wind on the mill.