Echo of Wind Among Ancient Papers

The wind, an eternal nomad, without rest,
rests lightly on volumes closed and rare.
Among yellowed pages, life is possessed,
a time that whispers silences and care.
An ancient breath brushes the worn-out edge,
seeking an echo of moments never met.
Faint nostalgia hides in every ledge,
of voices once alive, now scattered, wet.
The wind remembers history unfolding,
the words of love, the lives that were spent.
Perhaps a lament, sincere and far from knowing,
or the faint echo of thought, heaven-sent.
And the wind sighs, an ancient, deep breath,
while caressing paper faded and so frail.
No sound emerges from its world of death,
only the scent of ages that begin to fail.
But in the breeze that turns them softly through,
the dream revives, eternal and human too.