What sorrow it is
to be born with wind's gift upon your back
a countless-hundred treasures
for each gust that breaths across the land
and simply let
them
rot
in fear, in failure, away from sand or sky or storm
as feathers fall away
a winter beckoned before summertide
until you stand bereft and bare as stone
that offers now one place for you to rest
and those that find that grave, in voiceless grey,
mourn only that your bones will not be theirs

But spend your breath, while it's yet yours
Cry to tempest,
unheard in thunder's answer
and let the wrapping-wind bear a withered wingbeat's whisper
as once it promised you
For it also rises.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 21st of Lleian, in the year 16 AC.