Raindrops flee the clouds in quiet syncopation.
The skies roar in anguish, the wind burning my skin.
We are at the mercy of nature's uncertainty.
Though I still find peace there within.
Even as the ground shakes, trees break,
I listen to the wind.
It shouts a story, a warning, a memory.
You cannot see, nor touch, nor capture it.
But somehow I know it's there.
You ask how I know? Lend me your ear:
I can feel, that it is real.
It nips my skin, breathes cold breath on my face.
The wind comes from some distant place,
where people are not hypocrites,
where feelings are esteemed as facts.
In my world though, this one truth lacks.
So I stand in the wind.
Lose myself in its power and spontaneity.
Listen to the words the wind speaks to me.