The Passing Wind
The wind it comes, so soft, so still,
It whispers dreams beyond the hill.
It touches trees with gentle hand,
Then slips away across the land.
No eyes to see, no voice to cry,
Yet it can make the oceans sigh.
It bends the grass, it stirs the sand,
Then vanishes, as if it planned.
It knows no name, it holds no face,
But leaves behind a quiet trace.
It moves through cracks and under doors,
It flies through skies, it sweeps through shores.
A silent guest in storm or peace,
It brings both fury and release.
It does not ask, it does not stay,
It simply comes, then fades away.
It carries scent, it carries sound,
It lifts the lost up from the ground.
It cannot lie, it will not wait,
It moves beyond both love and hate.
It has no home, it wears no chain,
Yet finds a path through joy and pain.
It touches all, the young, the old,
Then disappears, both brave and bold.
So let it pass—don’t hold it tight,
Some things are born to live in flight.
For in the wind, we too may find,
The echo of a restless mind.
A voice that calls, a breath so wide,
A soul that cannot choose a side.
It teaches us, though we forget—
To move with grace, and no regret.