Wind

I have died, but you are still among the living.

And the wind, keening and complaining,
makes the country house and the forest rock
-not each pine by itself,
but all the trees as one,
together with the illimitable distance;
It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats
rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat basin.

And this the wind does not out of bravado
or in a senseless rage,
but so that in it's desolation
it may find words
to fashion a lullaby for you.

-Boris Pasternak