The Wind

             The wind was whispering in the trees, like a silent silver lance, a short lived wintry breeze, the chose the leaves to dance.

The wind was singing among the stones, like a sad and solemn bird.

Speaking of some holy bones, buried beneath a Christian stone,

To a sleeping world.

The wind was roaring around the rocks, like a lion for its prey,

A roar that at the Nemean it mocks, shattering the night time, and echoes into day.