The wind

The southern, angry thunder

gushes through the valley.

The mountain peak looks down

to trace the footsteps of the words

where they got lost

in the folds of paper.

The words which wrote the story of love

torn apart by the wild winds

which took it to the river

to wash the memory of you.

I stand still under the acacia blossoms

as the words get lost never to return.

Did we finally meet at the top of the snow covered peaks?

And what was said if any, got washed away

as the snows melted.

Come back you said,

when the storm passes.

Come under the shade of the willow tree

and find my hands enveloped around you.

Come back to find the taste of the forgotten words

which were not taken by high winds.

……………………………………………………………………

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