I wanted to create something beautiful,

then I stopped and looked up at the sky.

It took my fingers and wrote these verses.

It mentioned the sky,

faithful guardian of its reflexes.

And my watchful eyes,

curious were made of the wind.

Craving to fly with it

thus discovering its fears.

Even in a transformed breeze,

wind you told me,

how much you were afraid to blow again.

Leave A Reply