Who Are the Wind

Blow hard from lungs shrunk
Down to grains of bluest blood
Knowing no blood to be blue
That wants to do its work.

My father, my father, weak man
In his end times, small man
In his vanities, as I am in mine,
Knew his peasant blood blued.

Is mine? Is mine not yet red?
Are the lines in my mind
Still singing with lust in my head? 
In a bright time, when blue shines.