Her breath sang softly a song of woe;
of sadness like a breeze
that blows from that below
which keeps a guarded soul from ease—
from that which we will never know
but by the invisible advance
of its result: the swaying trees.
Its enigmatic existence

reveals itself, but barely so.
As branches blow and bend and break
another breeze begins below,
a sadder song seems to escape.
Straining melodies overflow
with soft lyrics sung in some strange language
that whisper the hidden shadowy shape
of broken branches and buried anguish.

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