Windmill

Here I'm still

both free and sheer,

like a windmill

waiting for a dear

breeze, a new deal

driving out the fear,

between this hill

and that sky clear

which makes me feel

unable to veer

or to say "I will",

alone as the tear

that I've shed ill.

What do I mean

without the wind?

How can I do

if I'm without you?

Why do I live

I just can't conceive!

Why to fiddle

living this riddle?

I'll be only a scrap,

I'll be only that!

What do I mean

here unable to win?

Life is a draw,

very well I know,

but to hope I appeal

as a dreaming windmill.

I can't face the fate

but I must appreciate

when the wind caresses

my soul and dresses,

or also when it seems

to blow in my dreams. 

(D.D)