Wake up, little soul, wake up,
the one you're waiting for is rising from the ground
wrapped in loam and soon will turn bright green,
and the breezes will be light as babies' breath.
Wake up before the creatures of the dark are gone
and everything goes blank as sleep,
you whose days are gone, who drifts like smoke,
tell me what is there, tell me what no one remembers,
tell me something, tell me anything.
A weave of wind and lines from two poems by Mark Strand.
