The wind once sang through hill and vale,
A voice untamed, unchained, ablaze—
Yet now, beneath a colder pen,
The wild fire flickers, losing praise.

They do not hear the tempest’s roar,
Its fury framed in measured lines;
Too raw, too wild, too full of blood—
A heart too rough for softer minds.

Once, the sky burned with golden words,
Each verse a storm, a raging sea—
But tides have turned, the voices rise,
Denying what they cannot see.

In quiet rooms, the pages turn,
The ink runs cold, the margins grow—
Where once a fierce and beating heart
Now only whispers ebb and flow.

The hills still hum with unsung tunes,
The roots reach deep, the grass still sways,
But what was once a roaring flame
Is starved beneath indifferent days.

They call it progress, turn the key,
And lock away the songs of light,
But in the dark, the earth still breathes
And waits for winds to rise and fight.

Though names may fade, the echoes stay,
Unwritten in their careful lore,
For somewhere in the distant dawn,
The storm will rage once more.