The scent of freshly cut grass
Will fade and cry and wish
To be the scent of the flowers,
Who stay and bloom
And are content

And the barn will yearn for a friend,
Rather than the hens poking at its walls
And the children tugging on its ropes

And the clouds will yearn for a home
And curse the wind,
For blowing it to places it never wanted to go

And the wind will break
In the branches of the trees,
And then will die