The whisper in the wind (Marcella Boccia)

The wind calls out in hollow sighs,
a voice too old for time to name,
it weeps beneath the ashen skies,
yet none can hear, yet none can claim.It knows the steps I leave behind,
it tastes the salt upon my skin,
it speaks of things I cannot find,
of doors unopened, locked within.At dusk it hums against my ear,
a ghostly touch, so soft, so thin—
a name I’ve long refused to hear,
a secret carved into the wind.