Wind is Rising

The wind is rising, so they say,
beneath the blue tent we prisoners call sky.
Upon these Wilde winds freedom is born
but this wholesome freedom in premature.
Perhaps if the bountiful fruit faintly tasted
so sweet if it were, but by you, blessed,
we would open our heart-sails and gladly take
the path that was not Northbound make.

If it were not by thunder we trembled,
lest lightning strike this house,
the nauseous feeling of things to come
would never tear us out.
If these are the last words you wish to speak,
then we, made humble, wish to oblige,
for the mercy, and the goodness keep
what love there is alive.