There is the old wind in the chimes
And in corner flowers slightly open,
The wind being still in old midnight.
The old transport van trundles past
Sleeping dogs with wind in the eyes
And its fleas with wind in their eyes.
There is no old wind under the door
But the old with a wind in their eyes,
Who have a wind in their old bodies.
Nights shadows are good old poems
On road with dogs under streetlights
And fleas with the wind in their eyes.
Luckily there is no wind under door
And postmen pushing tragic letters.
There are no postmen under a door.