By: Artistic Perspective
The wind is whistling to me.
To me, and to me only.
I hear it, even from far away.
I feel it, on my cheek, and blowing my hair.
Sometimes it howls, I wonder what it's feeling.
Why ruin a sunny day with wind?
I guess it's to make the grass, flowers, and trees dance.
Isn't that what people want? Entertainment?
When I feel the prickle of the wind, crawling up my skin,
I wonder, why me?
I realize, I am special, with a gift.
To see, hear, and feel the wind.
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Comments about this poem (Wind by Artistic Perspective )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(18 September 1906 - 18 September 1995)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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