The wind that sweeps the belfry tower,
Blows the leaves upon the ground,
And all the might and all the power,
Built perpetual as the mound.
This mound behind the rolling hills
Is born, not made, from Gaia’s hands,
So peering out my windowsill,
The beauty of such reprimands.
For I can see but cannot be,
Central piece of such sweet scene,
And though the breath inside me pleads,
A clock wont tick or be so keen.
Nor will winds of power and might,
Blow from in me to clear the way,
For new mounds be made tonight,
Whilst I rest the day away.