The wind is invisible,
it has no master,
it shifts its course without reason,
tearing down more than building,
it blows where it wishes,
you hear its sound,
but you know not whence it comes,
nor where it goes.
Swaying trees in a gentle embrace,
guiding clouds on their endless trek,
whispering songs the mountain never heard,
caressing it with soft undulating strokes.
It roars across the high mountain,
frolics with flowers in fleeting calm;
its power both wild and soothing,
echoing chaos and chorus at a whim.
It moves me without asking why,
a restless call beneath the endless sky.
I do not know where it comes from,
and it leaves me wondering where it goes.