The Wind Spoke Once
The wind stood still, waiting.
I thought it would pass,
but it watched me—
like a flame watches
a wick that forgot how to burn.
It moved,
not like a storm,
but like a thought
too vast for words.
“You think I’m just air,”
it said.
But I’m made of moments you missed—
before you spoke,
before you cried,
after your mistakes.”
“There was nothing to ask.“
Only understanding.
This wind had no direction;
only purpose.
It had touched prophets,
but never used its own voice.
“I carry what you lose,”
it said, almost gently.
“Not things—
but the weight
of what you keep inside.”
I stood still—
not in fear,
but in recognition.
Like a mirror
realizing it isn’t the reflection.
The wind leaned in,
touching my forehead—
as if we were one
before the world split us.
“When you’re quiet,”
it said,
“I’ll return.
And you’ll remember—
you taught me how to move.”

Showkat shah