THE KISS OF THE WIND
The kiss of the wind that I love best,
Brings the tang of the open sea,
The warm moist air that breathes the west,
Is the breeze that sets men free.
Where the wheel may turn neither north nor south,
As he sails to the siren's lute.
Where a man may go to the farthest shores,
To return by an obscure route,
The west wind's drift where the ocean lifts,
To the mournful sirens sigh,
Sets my spirit free on the western sea,
When it's time for the last goodbye.
The eastern gales chant the Viking song,
And a peasant may be king,
But it bitter blows from the open steppe,
It laments for the Arctic ring.
There’s a league or more to the folk next door,
Where the life be weather run,
And a man may sleep by his ten-league moat,
Till his life is complete and done.
Where the wolf and bear hold a message clear,
That a roving man will heed,
For its crisp cold song with its message strong,
Is a pledge for the land you need.
But the northern gale is a biter wind,
And it flirts with the Arctic waste,
The days are short they are bitter cold,
And the sun sinks down in haste.
A man may go to his rendezvous,
With defeat and a frozen death,
I have searched for myself, not an earthly end,
Is the curse on his dying breath.
Better the kiss of the warmer wind,
The tang of the open sea,
The soft moist air that breathes the west,
Is the wind that sets me free.
The southern wind is the plunder wind,
Where the spoils of war are spent,
In the bankers vaults and the whore’s bed,
And the sword is smelt to cents.
This warm wind blows from a southern clime,
Where the pirates, bankers, priests,
With their enterprise and their bible lies,
Win the hearts of the men they fleece.
Oh, the Southern wind is a restless wind,
With a perfume filled with spice,
It beckons me to the Coral Sea,
And the lure of Paradise.
Michael Walsh 1998 quite_write@yahoo.co.uk