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The wind knows my name (Marcella Boccia)
The wind knows my name (Marcella Boccia)
The wind is a storyteller,its voice ancient,whispering secrets in the crevices of stone,where the world’s skin is thinand the pulse of the earth beats louder.It knows me,not as I am,but as the things I’ve lost,the places I’ve wandered,the days that slip through my fingerslike forgotten prayers.I hear it in the rustle of leaves,in the sigh that bends the trees,in the soft murmur that stirs the sea,like a name being spoken in the dark,a name only the wind remembers,a name I’ve forgotten to speak.It doesn’t judge,this wind,it doesn’t ask for reasons,it simply knows—the ache that haunts the edges of my heart,the silence I wear like a cloak,the parts of me I have abandoned,as though they were stonescast into the depths of the ocean.The wind touches everything,and it touches me too,a gentle caress against my skin,a reminder that I have been here,and I will be again,not as I was,but as the space between breaths,the tremor between thoughts.It carries my name across the hills,across the rivers,across the empty roads I will never walk.And though I may never hear it,I know the wind speaks it still,soft and constant,like the pulse of the earth,like the sound of the stars,like the truth we all forget—that we are remembered,always.
The wind is a storyteller,its voice ancient,whispering secrets in the crevices of stone,where the world’s skin is thinand the pulse of the earth beats louder.It knows me,not as I am,but as the things I’ve lost,the places I’ve wandered,the days that slip through my fingerslike forgotten prayers.I hear it in the rustle of leaves,in the sigh that bends the trees,in the soft murmur that stirs the sea,like a name being spoken in the dark,a name only the wind remembers,a name I’ve forgotten to speak.It doesn’t judge,this wind,it doesn’t ask for reasons,it simply knows—the ache that haunts the edges of my heart,the silence I wear like a cloak,the parts of me I have abandoned,as though they were stonescast into the depths of the ocean.The wind touches everything,and it touches me too,a gentle caress against my skin,a reminder that I have been here,and I will be again,not as I was,but as the space between breaths,the tremor between thoughts.It carries my name across the hills,across the rivers,across the empty roads I will never walk.And though I may never hear it,I know the wind speaks it still,soft and constant,like the pulse of the earth,like the sound of the stars,like the truth we all forget—that we are remembered,always.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAThe wind knows my name (Marcella Boccia)
The wind is a storyteller,its voice ancient,whispering secrets in the crevices of stone,where the world’s skin is thinand the pulse of the earth beats louder.It knows me,not as I am,but as the things I’ve lost,the places I’ve wandered,the days that slip through my fingerslike forgotten prayers.I hear it in the rustle of leaves,in the sigh that bends the trees,in the soft murmur that stirs the sea,like a name being spoken in the dark,a name only the wind remembers,a name I’ve forgotten to speak.It doesn’t judge,this wind,it doesn’t ask for reasons,it simply knows—the ache that haunts the edges of my heart,the silence I wear like a cloak,the parts of me I have abandoned,as though they were stonescast into the depths of the ocean.The wind touches everything,and it touches me too,a gentle caress against my skin,a reminder that I have been here,and I will be again,not as I was,but as the space between breaths,the tremor between thoughts.It carries my name across the hills,across the rivers,across the empty roads I will never walk.And though I may never hear it,I know the wind speaks it still,soft and constant,like the pulse of the earth,like the sound of the stars,like the truth we all forget—that we are remembered,always.
The wind is a storyteller,its voice ancient,whispering secrets in the crevices of stone,where the world’s skin is thinand the pulse of the earth beats louder.It knows me,not as I am,but as the things I’ve lost,the places I’ve wandered,the days that slip through my fingerslike forgotten prayers.I hear it in the rustle of leaves,in the sigh that bends the trees,in the soft murmur that stirs the sea,like a name being spoken in the dark,a name only the wind remembers,a name I’ve forgotten to speak.It doesn’t judge,this wind,it doesn’t ask for reasons,it simply knows—the ache that haunts the edges of my heart,the silence I wear like a cloak,the parts of me I have abandoned,as though they were stonescast into the depths of the ocean.The wind touches everything,and it touches me too,a gentle caress against my skin,a reminder that I have been here,and I will be again,not as I was,but as the space between breaths,the tremor between thoughts.It carries my name across the hills,across the rivers,across the empty roads I will never walk.And though I may never hear it,I know the wind speaks it still,soft and constant,like the pulse of the earth,like the sound of the stars,like the truth we all forget—that we are remembered,always.