Green eyes in the dreaming forest
blue eyes in the sky.
At dusk a thousand eyes stare down
to watch where meadow flowers dream.
Beneath the moon, beside a stream
I sit and listen to the water,
tunes the lovely river-daughter
plays upon her silver harp.
Through a field of nodding corn
I walk to where the wind is born,
the little brown eyes of mice following me,
gentle, simple creatures
living on the doorstep of great mystery.
Did you think the temple of the wind
would be on some high mountain
roofed with ice and starlight
or that it issued from a cave
leading up from sunless caverns
where great ancient dragons sleep,
or in some arctic desert
beneath majestiv Northern Lights?
Oh no, all the winds of the world
are born in a little cornfield
and begin life as a gentle breeze
shaken out from sheaves of corn
by wise and meditating mice.
That is how the wind is born
before it journies to the sea
to acquaint itself with all the
joys and sorrows accunmulated in that
great reservoir of darkness and desire
before ever it blows through
the heats of women and men.
Scarlet eye of dawn's first kiss
grey eyes of the April rain
twinkling eyes of laughter
troubled eye of grief and pain:
watch where I wander
along the ancient shore
follow me through the greenwood's door,
beneath the roots of the mountain
beneath the surface of the stream
beyond the Moon, beyond the Sun
and out amongst the singing stars
I walk through fields of nodding corn
to where the winds of Earth are born.
