This wind that's coming is a stranger.
It is not one of those with a proper name.
It is not of the sea, nor of the mountain.
It is not of the hurricanes measured in knots.
It is a stranger this wind that's coming.
From prehistory it comes, it crosses the ages.
It gathers strength in the jungles of men, not of trees.
It grows, it grows, it is already with us, and can pass.
This wind is mild and silky.
But it is rebellion, this wind, this wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A free flight of creativity on winged imagination. An insightful creation. thanks for sharing.