The Wind

Catherine liked high places High up on the hills A place for making noises Noises like the whales Here she built a chapel With her image on the wall A place where she could rest and A place where she could wash And listen to the wind blow She dreamt of children's voices And torture on the wheel Patron-saint of nothing A woman of the hills She once was a lady Of pleasure and high-born A lady of the city But now she sits and moans And listens to the wind blow I see her in her chapel High up on a hill She must be so lonely Oh mother, can't we give A husband to our Catherine? A handsome one, a dear A rich one for the lady Someone to listen with