Over the woodlands, swooping low,

teasing of summer as they go,

the winds play in trees I know.

They blow to the ends

from the West.

And every day the wide skies call

the mighty king to his mountain hall.

Across the fields his footsteps fall.

The sun goes home

to the West.

Here, the colors shift to grey.

The ground beneath me turns away

and yet my gaze—it will not stray.

Part of me is

in the West.