This breeze of yours is scented, West
its wings are fragrant with apple and balm;
you’ve clearly come from the spice-traders’ chests
and not from the heavens’ stores of wind.
You spread the feathers of birds, and free me,
like scent wafting from purest myrrh.
We’ve all longed and waited for you,
prepared to ride the sea on a board,
so do not lift your hand from the sails,
whether the day declines or dawns,
but pound the deep and rend its heart
until you’ve reached the holy hills,
rebuking the East and its gales which cause
the sea, like a cauldron, to swell and seethe.
But what could one do, held back by the Lord,
bound today and tomorrow released?
My prayer’s answer is in His hand—
who forms the mountains, and fashions the wind.
