[ Poetry ] Open Question : I wrote this poem will you read it?

The heart of my old windmill remains still the winds no longer blow on this desolate hill. I prayed for God to breath and blow on this melancholic plateau his scattered attention does not spread to where a poor miller makes bread and waves his purse at labouring over this rapacious curse. I watched a dragonfly blow on old wind chimes and the winds returned my heart is full like my purse and bread as plentiful as the wind.