A nonchalant breeze wades through the bed of his birth
skipping his way, sketching ripples along, whistling a song..
A wave of flames drew itself in the air, so alive, so still and magical.
It is her.. painting her own hair in the air with the strokes of the red sun.
The breeze stretched over this moment, losing his mind, space and time,
spraying her hair all over him, dancing, high on her scent.
He knows a flute from a bamboo. He can tell. He is a wind;
So he gained strength to see if she is of his medley…
Oh he made her sing, ’twas the most sweetest song he could ever yield.
She then lit him, for he is a mere breeze, he can only raise so high up in the sky..
The fire she lit on him sets ablaze, with all his might, fueled by love and his lust
he rode upon those cold clouds, shattering into pieces..
With a thunderous cry, like a great column of water straight from the heavens,
he pours upon her, embracing to drench her with everything thats himself and then drained.
He finally cusps for his breath – reborn, for together, they become.. The calamity’s song.