The wind is never still. Never silent. If it was, it would not be wind any more. What is it running away from? Or equally well, what is it running towards? Restless, it seems like a child wanting to break its shackles and run, without knowing how to. The frustration further fuels its ferocity as it lashes out left and right, unto itself. And yet, within it, a strong want for peace lingers alone in a dark corner.
What of wind that
wants not to blow ?
But rest lightly
still, upon thy brow.
~
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