The wind bloweth where it listeth.
Where it listeth.
And we, we are nought but chaff in the wind.
Chaff in the wind.
When the wind is northerly ‘tis very cold.
And, when we are in Love reason is buffeted like wind-blown smoke.
Our lives are but feathers helplessly teased and tormented by the winds of Love.
All the winds sigh for sweet things dying, dying.
The wind from all points of the compass; north, east, south or west gathers and remembers our voices, the whispers of our hearts, and broadcasts them in the calls of the birds and the threshing of the leaves and fields.
The wind feeds the fires of Love and in the end is there to extinguish the flames too.
The east wind brought the locusts.
Two riders were approaching.
The wind began to Howl.
Love me, love me, love me, love me.
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