The Voice of the Wind opens not with fear but with an invitation—to gath­er near the fire, to draw warmth and com­fort from its steady glow. Out­side, the storm rages, yet inside, a false sense of peace lingers. But the wind, wild and per­sis­tent, refus­es to be ignored. It push­es against the win­dows, it screams through the cracks, and it car­ries with it mem­o­ries the earth has long buried. In its cry is the clash of ele­ments, a moan­ing lament that reach­es far­ther than the eye can see. Though no one bids it speak, it does—and every tale it brings car­ries weight and sor­row.

The wind is not just a sound; it is a wit­ness. On the bat­tle­field, it swirls above the fall­en, gath­er­ing the silence of death and the growl of scav­engers feast­ing on the name­less. There are no heroes in this wind’s story—only bod­ies, torn ban­ners, and lives lost beneath gray skies. The storm does not pause to mourn, and the wind does not choose sides. In this relent­less swirl of air and dust, human suf­fer­ing is record­ed with­out judg­ment. Each gust car­ries a piece of pain. Yet, no one lis­tens, because the wind is loud, and we pre­fer the warmth of our own hearths.

When it moves across the sea, the voice of the wind deep­ens. Its song turns to shrieks as waves devour wood­en hulls. Sailors shout prayers into the void, but only the wind answers, echo­ing cries swal­lowed by foam and storm. It tells of moth­ers wait­ing by win­dows and chil­dren whose lul­la­bies are for­ev­er unan­swered. There is no peace here—only cold and fear and the real­i­ty of frag­ile ves­sels meet­ing eter­nal water. Still, the wind car­ries on, bear­ing these tragedies through mist and time. And we sit inside, pre­tend­ing not to hear.

Over moors blan­ket­ed in snow, the wind remem­bers those who nev­er reached home. Foot­steps dis­ap­pear. Frozen lips cease to plead. Trav­el­ers van­ish in white silence, their fates sealed by nature’s indif­fer­ence. The wind recalls their names, even if the world for­gets. It rush­es past sleep­ing vil­lages, through bare trees and nar­row pass­es, howl­ing truths no one repeats. Yet, this is not malice—it is mem­o­ry. A mem­o­ry the wind alone pre­serves.

In haunt­ed woods and icy fields, the wind becomes a silent mourn­er. It pass­es over chains dragged by the enslaved, chased by dogs, their dig­ni­ty stripped by hands that nev­er felt the cold. It hears the orders shout­ed and the cries sti­fled. These echoes live in the rustling branch­es and the hush that fol­lows a sud­den silence. It howls through for­est paths where fear once gal­loped beside des­per­ate hooves. Though the world march­es for­ward, the wind turns back, remem­ber­ing every­thing. It whis­pers those sto­ries so we might final­ly lis­ten.

In one chill­ing breath, the wind reminds us of what com­fort costs. Every fire we stoke burns brighter against a dark­ness we choose not to face. But the wind does not for­get what the world wants buried. Its song is not for enter­tain­ment. It is a record of pain, of injus­tice, of lone­ly deaths beneath indif­fer­ent skies. Even in its vio­lence, there is pur­pose. To stir us, to wake us, to remind us that not all storms stay out­side. The wind, with its spec­tral voice, becomes both mes­sen­ger and memo­r­i­al.

And so, the poem ends not with silence but with con­tin­ued motion. The wind does not stop. It moves, it tells, it remem­bers. Whether we hear it or not, its voice continues—raw, insis­tent, eter­nal. It holds the sto­ries that his­to­ry over­looks and sings them not for sym­pa­thy, but for truth. Through its path, it urges us to step beyond com­fort, to notice the lives caught in the storm, and to car­ry them with us, if only in the qui­et moments when the wind howls through the night and we can no longer pre­tend we haven’t heard.