Monday, 23 June 2014


The fickle wind
That slams
And flutters
At the shutters
Of your heart
Blows North,
Blows South;
And in accordance
Your mouth utters
Words of choice
Or doubt.

The wind-vane turns.
The wind-vain spins;
Oh it spins!

This way:
Your face turns;
That way:
Your heart burns.

And I, steady as a farmer
Hand on the trudging plow
Bending under that wind,
Can only keep to my vow
And mutter that old line:

Oh pray love me little
(for I know you love
not strong)
Oh pray love me little
That you may love me long...

Manuela Cardiga

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