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.