I touch joy and it crumbles under my fingers--
The dust from it rises and fills the world,
It blinds my eyes--I cannot see the sun.
A choking fog of dust shuts me apart. I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn morning,
I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale,
Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen leaves--
Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird. I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers.