To a Zephyr

I am but a denudate grassland,
I do not hope for much.
Breeze or rain would delight me.
Denied both, i wouldn't quiver much.

But when my stars are good,
And one of them do sanctify me,
I sway to their good will,
Like an innocent child would.

Now, i have chanced upon a breeze,
Ah! What a pleasant breeze!
It is moving me in ways,
That I would have never dared.
I sway to its rhythm,
In an orgasmic trance,
Hoping it would last forever,
If it ever should.

I don't think of much else now,
But enjoy its plesantness while it is still there.
As rooted as I may be,
I feel free, with the pleasant breeze.

Just when i am beginning to celebrate,
My lucky turn of fate,
I am reminded,
Of the stark reality ahead.
The breeze has to move on,I realise.
To tend another grassland.
Just like mine.

"All things come to pass", they say;
How i wish it would wrong this once,I pray.
Now, i don't feel the breeze anymore,
No rustlings, no plesant strokes.
All i can hope for in the end,
Is that she has pleasant memories
Of mine to tend.

Ah! sweet reality,
How she plays her games;
I see the laden clouds now,
Spewing pleasant rain!