Whispers of the Wind

Through valleys deep and mountains high,

Where ancient echoes softly lie,

The wind, a whisper, passes by,

A breath, a song, a mournful sigh.

It starts its journey far away,

In lands where dawn first kisses day,

Where ocean’s waves in rhythms play,

And seabirds in the breezes sway.

Across the meadows, fields of green,

Where flowers bloom and life is seen,

It dances light, a fleeting queen,

In sunlight’s golden, warming sheen.

It twists and turns through forest deep,

Where shadows in the darkness creep,

Through branches where the willows weep,

And secrets old in silence keep.

It brushes past the city streets,

Where life’s chaotic rhythm beats,

It tangles in the crowd’s retreats,

In bustling throngs and busy feats.

Through windows open, curtains wide,

It slips inside, it cannot hide,

It tells of tales from far and wide,

Of distant lands and shifting tides.

It lifts the kites in children’s hands,

A playful friend on golden sands,

It shapes the dunes in desert lands,

A sculptor with unseen commands.

In ancient times, it spoke to seers,

A voice that whispered in their ears,

It carried hopes, it carried fears,

A messenger across the years.

In quiet nights, beneath the stars,

It hums of Venus and of Mars,

Of galaxies and cosmic scars,

Of wandering souls and distant bars.

It stirs the leaves, a rustling song,

It carries dreams, it rights the wrong,

It’s here, it’s there, it moves along,

Invisible, yet ever strong.

It brings the rains, it clears the skies,

It cools the heat, it dries the eyes,

It lifts the wings where eagles rise,

It’s freedom’s breath, it never dies.

It howls in storms, a wild refrain,

It lashes seas, it drives the rain,

It’s power unbound, it’s nature’s bane,

Yet calm returns, a gentle gain.

In whispers soft or mighty roar,

It’s always there, from shore to shore,

A constant presence, evermore,

A force unseen, but to the core.

It carries scents of blooming rose,

Of pine, of earth, where life bestows,

It mingles with the morning’s prose,

A symphony that ebbs and flows.

It’s in the flutter of a wing,

The sound that autumn breezes bring,

It’s in the song that thrushes sing,

In every quiet, stirring thing.

It moves through time, through night and day,

A timeless dance, a constant play,

In joy, in sorrow, come what may,

The wind will always find its way.

So listen close, and you will hear,

The stories whispered in your ear,

The tales of old, the ones so near,

The wind’s own voice, so pure, so clear.

It speaks of love, it speaks of loss,

Of journeys taken, lines that cross,

Of gentle streams and fields of moss,

Of victories and battles lost.

It’s every tear that’s ever shed,

It’s every word that’s ever said,

It’s every book that’s ever read,

It’s life’s own breath, by which we’re led.

It’s in the eyes of those who dream,

In every child’s laugh and gleam,

It’s in the river’s flowing stream,

A part of every living theme.

So when you feel that gentle breeze,

Or hear it rustling through the trees,

Know that it carries memories,

Of endless tales, of endless seas.

It’s always there, it’s always been,

In every place you’ve ever seen,

It’s part of what makes life serene,

The wind, the spirit, the unseen.

It’s in the past, it’s in the now,

It’s in the future’s sacred vow,

It’s in the bend, it’s in the bow,

The wind, eternal, sacred cow.

So lift your eyes and feel its grace,

It’s in the smile on every face,

In every heart’s tender embrace,

The wind, a force we can’t replace.

Through every life, through every death,

It’s there within each whispered breath,

A force that binds, that never sets,

The wind, our guide, our dearest guest.

And when the final day is done,

When night has fallen, lost the sun,

The wind will sing, its song begun,

A lullaby for everyone.

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Writer's Note

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