the wind

The wind whispers secrets through the trembling leaves, a language of rustle and sigh, half-spoken, half-believed. It carries the scent of distant rains, a promise of storms or the kiss of plains. It dances on rooftops, a ghostly hand, tapping its fingers, unseen but grand. The chimneys hum its fleeting tune, a melody lost beneath the moon. It sculpts the dunes with restless care, shaping the earth with invisible air. The sand obeys, a shifting sea, etched by the wind’s wild decree. It tugs at my hair like a child at play, urging me onward, begging me stay. I close my eyes and let it lead, a guide without voice, a force without need. It howls through the cracks in the old stone walls, a voice of the past where memory falls. The echoes linger, faint and thin, a breath of the dead stirring within. And when it stills, the world holds its breath, waiting, waiting, for life or death. But the wind returns, as it always will, a restless spirit, untamed and thrill.