Fickle Wind

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It tickled my nose
and whispered in my ears
then whipped my face
and shrieked and wailed.
It changes rapidly:
first gentle
then harsh.
Where does it come from?
Where does it go?
And does it have a life of it's own?
It shrieks, wails and whispers,
but it's soulless.
Devoid of grief,
of sorrow,
of anger,
of happiness,
and of pity.
It's very windy.

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