The buffeting wind is the ceaseless word
of all those silenced before now.
These leaves clinging on the trees are nodding
universal recognition.

Voices from distant lands and from the past
are reaching me now and telling
how important it is to understand-
they don't do things differently there.

As ornaments the surviving chessmen 
conclude, shadows mixed and lengthened,
the game is over. Still, everybody knows
the wheel of fortune keeps turning.

Children ,rightly, expect a solution
they say "What is the problem here?"
Clutching scarves against the buffeting wind
will it ever be warm again?