Wind As A Wandering Voice Poem by ashok jadhav

The wind moves on with stories in its breath,
A roaming tongue that never learns to stay;
It calls from hills, from shores that tasted depth,
And whispers names the heart has lost its way.
It threads through trees like speech half-understood,
A language shaped by distance, dust, and rain;
In open fields it sings of solitude,
In alleys hums of joy entwined with pain.
At night it taps my window, soft yet wise,
As if it knows the thoughts I cannot say;
It borrows sound from all that live and die,
Then drifts away before the break of day.
I listen close, for in its restless tone,
The wind repeats what seeks no final home.