Windmill

By John Aspen P. Catingub

Oh Windmill, oh Windmill

Doth points thee three-sixty

To the sky? To the hill?

The fringes of  thrifty?

Windmill doth turn to try,

Cycle to centrifuge

Then when my lips run dry,

As my mind lost to scrooge.

Where doth direction stick?

Where doth the wind tell clock?

From the place of the tick,

Or the place of the tock?

Turn, oh, turn, lost windmill

Turn until wind be gone,

For when wind be lost kill,

So doth kill the day’s dawn.

~END~