In a slightly crooked way,
And the trees can hardly move,
They lack their usual sway,
The feathers from the birds,
Sailing in the sky,
Float with less ease and freedom,
When a crooked breeze rolls by,
The sailors of the deep,
Hoist their billowing sails,
But the speed they usually keep,
Comes to no avail,
I am a sway-less tree,
In the flaming mire,
With feather floating stiffly,
Into spikes of fire,
My mind is lost like the sailors,
Tugging at the sails,
Running slow on rugged seas,
In the midst of rain and hail,
The crooked winds are blowing,
On this restless day,
As I sit in orbs of thought,
With nothing much to say.
