My balloon was mine in full
Until its tune the wind blew.
I was alone that afternoon
- Its red into the blue flew.
I walked like children do.
Night drew its cloak of gloom
Over the trail of my balloon
- A forest told me of its doom.
It whispered low without a tune:
"Better to fly and, so soon, die
Than here to live in rooted plight
- For your balloon you should not cry."
A stranger came, did not ask why
My little heart was torned in half.
He gave to me his winter coat
- And gently took this photograph.
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