Round does the wind blow
Through the thick forest brush
Through the iron and glass
Through the marsh and the damp
Through open expanse of blue
And through the body, of you, and of me.

This poem will not talk
About the winding pillow and sock
As slumber does not wait to tumble
Into indecipherable dreams and terrors
As fantasy blurs with what is real
And what is want,
What you need however,
Is not a taunt

Because the wind will speak
It will whisper, and howl
It will never be silenced
But not all the crowd
Will be to hear it's pained speak
As the closed will become deaf
And the open become blind
Because the closed will not let the wind in,
And the open will not see the wind, or feel the wind, who it is, and who the cries of help belong,
No empathy, much less sympathy, for the voices that go with the wind.

And so nature weeps in the drizzle
Screams in the thunder
And remains silent on gloomier days,
The days that feel silent and sad, are the days with no rain.

The wind was not heard, seen, nor felt,
And so it's secrets and it's voices
It's pains and it's emotions
It's sufferings and it's triumphs
Remain only in the unknown (in the dark)
The wind sings but was never heard.

One voice says, "His cries for forgiveness will never be fulfilled, my hurt will become his hurt, and that will be all, until the end."

Another says, "Tell my sister I will never be home, I was never found, but I am still here"

And a third says; "I was alone."

And the rest?

Are only whispers too quiet to be words.