The wind, embracing gently, Whispered: «Our world is boundless… Of a love that’s endless, truly, Careless of all suffering…» «Wind, you’re a deceiver, clearly: The world’s not small, yet it’s finite, And love — so fleeting, nearly Vanishing — that’s obvious, surely. It wounds those who are loving, Spares not the weak, unmoving, And perhaps it takes the strong, too, Leaving hearts in sorrow’s hue.» «Wind, you’re a deceiver, clearly: The world’s not small, yet it’s finite, And love — so fleeting, nearly Vanishing — that’s obvious, surely.» And yet, they say, love’s lovely, Blind, they claim, and maybe A little cruel, it seems to me, Sometimes deceitful — can’t disagree. More often, through and through, it’s false, A mask where truth lies half;disclosed.» «Wind, you’re a deceiver, clearly: The world’s not small, yet it’s finite, And love — so fleeting, nearly Vanishing — that’s obvious, surely.»