The whistling wind
Blows through the trees.
I hear them crying out—
Crying for me.

The clouds shade the moon
She wishes not to be seen
While she is weeping.
She’s weeping for me.

The air is turning frigid.
It’s turning, indeed.
Turing to turn
A cold shoulder at me.

For I am the girl
Who promised the world.
And I just kept promising.
But how could I keep
Promises so deep
When it was I in need?