A story never told or learned from but simply left in the mind of a lone individual who took it to their grave, after suffering in it for years.
Do the untold stories of the wind burn on the olden lips of those who’ve left without telling them?
For Underneath the kiss of the sun, I taste every lie that it’s told me. Every empty promise it’s made. Everyday it screamed for hopes, dreams and imaginations only to leave me as you would an empty bottle of Vodka after a night you can’t remember.

Taken into the soft caress of the breeze, I feel every dream it’s stolen. Every thought, every story, every imaginative word that’s been uttered before me beats against my face, and sends my hair in all directions. For what is a thought or experience not shared?
Is the wind the hero or the villain for stealing the tales of the oppressed and repressed?

Will the fears that dance around my heart at night,one day follow me to the grave?
Will it seep through the mud and into a river, where a mother will use it to wash clothes for her child?
Will the hope and dreams I carry in my mind one day become the silver lining on a grey cloud, to brighten another day?