The boy who spoke to the wind
The milky sky was a terrace he walked on.
The soil was a soft silk sheet.
In twinkling stars, he used to find whispers.
In the moon, the scars of a wound.
Walls were his friends,
the wind was his answer.
Buds made him giggle from deep within.
His life was full of chaos and disaster.
The buds who dreamt to fly.
The buds who wished for confidence.
He smiled — a bitter one.
"I was like them, always demanding high."
A star fell from the sky, out of curiosity.
It asked:
"Why do you always sit here?
Why do you talk to them?
Why are you so different?
Why are you full of mystery?"
The star waited for his answer.
He stared at the sky, tracing the scars of the moon.
"They were my first star.
They were my first moon.
My sky, my flower, the soil that fed my roots.
But stars can be torn.
The sky can bring rain.
Flowers can give you thorns.
The moon can be swallowed by mourns.
When it happened, I broke.
The wind caught me.
The stars gave me light.
The moon told me his courageous story.
The buds sang me lullabies."
The star flickered, its smile dim.
He smiled as if he understood something.
The night turned pale.
The star returned home.
But the boy stayed,
watching the sky that once belonged to him.
≈ @inksoftly 🥀
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Not every child speaks. Some whisper to the sky instead.❤️🩹
You author is back 😉🔙
