The wind moves through the fields like an old storyteller,
gathering whispers from the grass,
carrying them to the edge of the sea.
It remembers the laughter of children
who once chased kites across the hill,
their voices bright as sunlight on water.
It remembers the scent of rain
that fell on roofs made of tin and hope,
the way the earth sighed when it drank,
and how the trees leaned closer,
as if listening to a secret too soft to keep.
The wind has touched every windowpane,
every lonely road where footsteps fade.
It knows the language of goodbyes,
the trembling hush before a storm,
the quiet promise of dawn.
And when it passes through your hair,
it carries stories you’ll never hear—
of places you’ve never been,
of hearts that once beat in rhythm with yours,
long before you were born.