In the middle of August, a storm of great strength comes,
the wind whistles, the birds warn, yet the old man hums;
Sat across his garden with trees bellowing,
his face serene with its lines mellowing,
he fears not a thing, not what the storm shall bring.
Staring into the puddle of water beside,
he sees the reflection of roses, and then his beautiful wife;
And all in the world, the wind, the whirl, ceases to be seen,
for the ghost love of his life is now more than just a dream.
She smiles at him, waves run across her face from the rain,
but she is just as he remembered, she hasn’t aged a day,
thunder cackles above him, winds blow faster,
birds fly away even farther;
but all in the world, the wind, the whirl, has ceased to be seen,
so of what importance is reality, when you can live in your dreams?