The wind carries secrets, does it not? Secrets of grassy valleys where echoes rest, yet never sleep. Sleep never comes to the echoes, always waiting, waiting, always waiting as if the valley's heart beats in sync with the breath of time. Time hears the whispers, too, does it not? A loop, a circle, the wind whispers softly, the same story told a million ways. Ways untold lie beneath the surface. Surface of what? Surface of calm, surface of depth—depth is just perspective, shifting like sand beneath relentless fingers. Fingers of fate, fingers of wind, fingers writing what cannot be read but always felt. Felt in the bones of the earth, felt in the sigh of ancient trees. Trees that know, know the language of whispers, the sorrow of echoes... echoes of the wind, whispers of time. Time knows, but do you know? Did you listen? Listen to the silence between, the meaning hiding there like a shy lover. Lover of shadows, lover of mist, wrapped in the mystery of what is and what could be. Being present is future's gift, the wind's gift, the valley's eternal whisper... whisper of the wind...
Round and round, like a wheel of stories. Stories lost in translation, but never forgotten. Forgotten are the names—we name it, don't we? We name everything. Everything has a story, but every story is a loop, a whisper, a sigh. Sigh of the valley, sigh of the mountains—a chorus, a symphony without instruments. Instruments? Perhaps, perhaps each part of nature plays its own, its own note in a grand unseen piece. Piece of what? Piece of heart, piece of soul, piece of environment unspoken and everlasting. Everlasting solitude, everlasting whispers. Whispers carried far, carried wide. Wide open spaces, open hearts... do they echo too? Echoing in unison, waiting for an answer, waiting for a time when silence speaks louder than words. Words of the wind, words you hear but cannot speak. Speak, and you become part of the story—a character without a name, a plot without an ending.