Who are we but the wind in the trees?
Passing through, disturbing the peaceful lives of simple leaves.
We wish to and fro,
Gentle or thrashing,
Saving or destroying.
A slight breeze in the face of nature,
A causation of reality,
A pebble thrown into a well.
We are but the wind,
Refreshing or dangerous,
But the wind all the same.
YOU ARE READING
Moving the Mountains
PoetryPoetry used to bring down countries and inspire artists and break and win over hearts. This poetry is meant for the same fate, if only one truly decides to read it.
