The Wind Knows My Name

I walk where cliffs and oceans meet,

In twilight hush, with silent feet.

The sky turns deep, a violet flame,

And still — the wind, it knows my name.

It doesn't shout, it doesn’t cry,

It whispers soft as dusk draws nigh.

It weaves through hair, then through my chest,

A ghostly hand that knows me best.

No lips to speak, no eyes to see,

Yet something out there follows me.

It calls not loud, but just enough,

To stir the soul and make me trust.

Before I spoke, before the fear,

Before I cried my first tear —

The wind had seen my shapeless face,

And held me in its calm embrace.

When all forget, and I feel small,

No echo answers when I call —

Still in the breeze, without acclaim,

The wind, it softly speaks my name.