Young Girl

Is that somebody crying outside in the wind?
Some lonely person dying,
Weeping because they sinned?
No, it’s only a poor girl’s sobbing,
Carried by the gale,
Only a young girl,
Lost in the lonely night,
Limbs and feelings tired,
With no strength left to fight.

Only the comfort of being alone,
To weep as deep as she cares,
Walking along with the wind and leaves,
Blown against her hair.

There’s nothing in words to say,
And nothing in doing to do,
But walk with her wind fluttered shadow,
And share her misery too.
It’s only a young girl’s arm in mine,
Slim and cold from the night,
And I touch the arm,
And I leave the arm,
And I know what I did was right.

There’s a girl in the wind and I call her,
With a cry the same as her own.
And the wind it carries it to her,
And she knows she’s no longer alone.
For the wind has carried the weeping,
From all the ages of men,
Has carried the breath from the sleeping,
And put it back again.
For the wind is the soul of women,
The spirit of men’s unrest,
And we carry its child within us,
Living in our breast.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp