The Accent of Tomorrow in the Wind

Not only stardust and rain,
not only leaves turned or salt spray.
The wind, weaver of mysteries and thresholds,
brings a whisper, a timbre, another star.
It is an accent that has no voice yet,
a hidden harmony, a bitter echo,
a sprout of atrocious syllable
or joyful one, which history still keeps.

It is not an audible word, nor song,
but subtle vibration upon the skin,
a memory of future, a cry
or laughter still closed within the stars.
It draws maps that do not exist, slight,
landscapes without name, without time,
unblemished promises, brief encounters
with the shadow of an eternity at once.

And while it dances through branches and downspouts,
it brushes the mind with ungraspable veil.
A sweet unease, without distress,
an unknown path, though palpable still.
It leaves us waiting, a living question:
which verb, which story, which face
will be shaped by this drift of its passage,
by this unreachable premonition?