1.

The wind speaks first,

whispering secrets through the swaying grass,

I hear it say:

the old stories are not forgotten,

they are carried on the breath of the earth.

2.

A child’s laughter follows,

cutting through the air,

sharp as sunlight on a cold day—

it doesn’t know yet

that joy can be broken,

that voices can splinter like glass.

3.

My grandmother’s voice comes next,

soft, cracked with age and sorrow:

I have lived a hundred years,

she tells me,

and the things I’ve seen

could fill a thousand books

or one small heart, heavy.

4.

An old friend I haven't seen in years—

calls out in my mind,

reminding me of promises,

of summers spent by the sea,

before the salt turned to tears,

before the waves carried us

to different shores.

5.

And then, your voice,

or is it a memory?

Echoing against the hollow of my chest,

it says:

I am still here,

in the quiet spaces between words,

in the pauses of your breath.

6.

All these voices intertwine,

a melody that is at once

haunting and beautiful—

and I realize,

they are not separate

but a part of me,

the chorus of a life

still being sung.

7.

The wind picks up again,

and I hear its final sigh,

as if it knows

it must carry these voices

farther still,

past the horizon,

into the open sky.