sister poem

eighty years have passed, and more
i heard the wind all day
i know not where
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
in and of itself
full of tears
but alas, just dreams
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
though i am little as all little things
beneath my window in a city street
they ask me where i've been
with the sunset
and how could you dream of meeting
the stars fell from heaven