I could tell you stories, about the things we do not know.
Like where does the wind go, whenever it blows?--
And sways like breath, against the walls of my chest--
To remind me of its' presence,
Wonder where will it go next?
From where does it come?
From who does it run?
Like my thoughts, that trip over each other
In a hurry.
You best stay still, following their lead, leaves our vision blurry.
Why is it, that the sun sits ever so high?
And as we wander in pain,
Lift our heads towards the sky?
Perhaps to remind us, we are never alone.
And that the lonely house in which we've come to know,
Is just a temporary home.
"One day," says the sun, "you will know where the wind blows;
one day you will be set free, to go as the wind goes."
