Echoes of Wings in the Wind

A secret is born, light and mute,
not spoken aloud, but from the heart’s root.
It has wings intangible, like a soft salute,
a barely breath, received by silence absolute.
The wind takes it now, carrying it far away,
a faint beating rhythm that cannot be seen.
It brushes the skin, caresses in vain play,
a vague shadow no mortal can convene.
It is an eternal whisper, a subtle echo,
it can light up fires, or settle doubt’s decree.
Its fragile dance, so gentle and low,
truth or deception it may reveal to thee.
Thus flies the secret, without any home,
a tremor of air, an unknown pulse to roam.
Until a careful heart perhaps receives its call,
or disperses out, a remote breath over all.