Wind in Our Hair

The world is not a fair place,
You see that dense forest of hurt,
Where the wild berries of teardrops grow,
The thorn of anger nicks the skin,
And the fruit of loneliness never ripens.

There under the shade of vulnerability,
The bird of longing flaps its wings,
The love nest bereft of eggs,
And the tree of anxiety sways and sings,

Only in autumn the fallen leaves of sorrow,
Are gathered by the shaking hands of wind,
In the rustle of the foliage,
Rings the sound of death,
And when the mourning is over,
Will the breeze of love feel our face,
Ruffle our hair with naughtiness,
In this unfair world there might still be hope,
For all the brokenness.