The wind has sinned.
It took ink from the
sun
Wrote stories on the
sky
What appeared as
clouds
Became visible with
the moon
Daylight is such a lie
Thousand stories
But whose stories are
these
Smiling, crying witness.
And where are they
placed
Right in front of
nowhere.
And how old are they
Light-years, or a day.
In the middle of all
these fictions,
The wind, the only
indispensable voleur
The uncatchable
offender
Perpetually in medias
res, yet out of sight
The invincible, pure benefactor
No matter what,
unwinds.
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