We sit like gods, but we aren’t like Zeus, towering above the sky.
We are the Anemoi, the gods of the wind.
Untamed, unstoppable, Unremembered.
We gaze up into the sky with wide, dreaming eyes,
Casually setting the things we need to be doing aside,
Just so we can chase after the clouds shaped like stars,
Because the real stars are too far away.
But that doesn’t mean we won't reach them
And clutch their energy fueled bodies in our hands.
We are the Anemoi, The gods who move with the wind,
The wind people pray for,
The wind people curse at,
The wind that blows season into season,
Scuffing and twirling leaves and flowers with our hands.
Although a poor memory in a dead man’s mind,
We are the god’s you’d miss.
A season wouldn’t be a season without us,
You’d have nothing simple to pray for,
Something simple to curse for.
So don’t be blind,
When the wind starts to weaken and dwindle.