Sunday, September 1, 2013


She braves this world with dress unfurled
and billow’d in the wind.
As ghost or angel, one or both,
she walks the breeze, my friend.

And as the wind through oak trees cries,
friend, you’ll hear her sing.
And listen with your lonely heart;
you’ll hear her fluttering wing.

Upon the pure white of the cloud,
she sails the sea-blue sky.
Of nature’s call she hears it well,
laments its mournful cry.

Soon comes the time, my friend, you see,
her ghost shall cry no more,
for God shall end this man-made Hell
with the final war.

                     --Monty Wheeler

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