Walkers of the Wind
No man knows who he is:
his life—a footprint in the wild;
we are all walkers of the wind.
Until his image blends into the sun,
until his eyes are flecks upon the tide,
until he dies—
and knows he was alive—
we are all walkers of the wind.
His whole direction is a myth of miles,
and all his strength reduces hills to hills.
No man knows who he is.
Until the fruit drops into the ground,
Until the sun builds a greener vine,
We are all walkers of the wind.