The Wind Cries Mary.

After all the Jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed,
you can hear happiness
staggering on down the street -
footprints dressed in red.
And the wind whispers Mary...

A broom is drearily sweeping up
the broken pieces of yesterday's life.
Somewhere a queen is weeping,
somewhere a king has no wife.
And the wind it cries Mary...

The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed.
The tiny island sails downstream
cause the life that lived is dead.
And the wind screams Mary...

Will the wind ever remember
the names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, it's old age and it's wisdom
it whispers No! This will be the last.
And the wind cries Mary...

James Marshall Hendrix, * 27. November 1942 in Seattle, Washington; † 18. September 1970 in London, England.