The Names of the Wind Within

I have walked beneath a hundred skies,

each one wearing a different face.

Their colors shift, their memory lies—

disguises stitched in cloud and grace.

I have worn the rain as silver skin,

the dusk as mask, the dawn as veil.

Each wind that moves without, within,

has whispered who I might unveil.

I’ve heard my name in river rain,

in leaves that shimmer, light and thin—

their tongues recall what I contain,

the hidden self beneath the skin.

The wind remembers—soft, unbidden—

the truths I buried to survive.

It holds the names I thought were hidden,

and hums them back to keep me alive.

It carries grief in gilded measure,

and joy disguised in ash and flame.

It knows that loss creates its treasure,

and silence, too, will speak my name.

I am not bound to bone or breath;

my voice wears many borrowed forms.

Through every mask, through life and death,

the wind remakes me in its storms.

Each gust reveals, each stillness hides—

the mirror turns, the song renews.

The self divides, then re-unites,

in every name the wind re-chooses.

And when the final silence grows,

when all disguises fall away,

the wind will call what no one knows—

and I will answer—

I am the mask, the light, the day.