Listen to the whispers

that are borne upon the wind,

Echoing the sighs of Heaven

over a fate that's predestined.

For the moving hand has written

the world's fate amongst the stars,

And the winds oft moan and repeat those words

in their varied repertoires.



Softly like a zephyr's kiss

or loudly as in a gale,

The wind informs the whispering grass

who in turn, repeats the tale.

The trees take up the story,

Hear it rustling through the leaves?

The truth is surely out there

it's only man that disbelieves.....