With wind whispers the storm to the trees,
whistling and wailing the wish of the will.
With wind my children, with wind.
With water whispers the waves to the sand,
Washing and whirring the whip on the land.
With water my children with water.
With warmth whispers the sun to the sky,
Waking and waring on escarpment and rill,
With warmth my children with warmth.
Time does not take us, nor years do torment us,
but marry erosion to all that we see,
the wind, warmth and water,
I tell you my daughter,
will flower your youth,
then rob you the same.
This my mother told to me once,
not once, but twice,
perhaps yet again.
I see her in memory, her skin still unlined,
I did not see then, the coming of signs,
that marked a past for to give life to me,
the gift that has caused me to be.
With breath speak we low of the love and the light,
with water we wash away pain, dirt and blight,
with warmth we embrace,
Each one in proportion, to its time and place.
The blunt breaks and bludgeons
the storm and the sand,
the burn on our visage, the death coming brand.
The same substances that buries, and breaks, and then burns,
is the substance that fills, these delicate urns,
that carry our passion, and with which we fashion.
All that they end, is with them begun.
We are baptized at birth,
With water my child, with water.