The wind breathes softly over the hollow hill, Whispering forgotten hymns through reed and limb, Gentle murmurs drift through twilight dim, A mother's voice, an endless hymn.

Each blade of grass, every stream's gentle flow, Instruments tuned by air alone; A song no human hand conducts, Rhythms older than flesh or bone.

Listening close, the heart recalls Echoes stirred by ancient calls— Each breath of wind, each whispered tone, Carries voices made from blood and stone.

Here, beneath a boundless sky, Held in whispers drifting by, I stand in wonder, still and clear— What is past is present, gathered here.