They say the wind is an echo from the future,
a language without form yet shaped with purpose.
Do you stand and listen, or move with its rhythm,
To discern the oracles hidden in its embrace?

The feathered ambassadors of the sky know its secrets,
Weaving tales of lands beyond mortal reach.

Did you see the invisible ink?
The air is thick with stories.
Perhaps here, perhaps there,
An oracle speaks in the silence of the gale.