• I waited for the wind to come.
    Her soft fingers caressed my wounds,
    And she whispered secrets to me,
    And I whispered mine to her.
    I told the wind of my problems.
    She never seemed to mind,
    Always sitting there patiently,
    Waiting for her turn to come.
    When she told me her troubles,
    She would always scream and shout,
    But I knew this wind, a gentle soul,
    She was never angry for too long.