In the meadows, winds call your name;
listen to them clearly as trees rustle their leaves in anguish,
and as ravens croak their flight to silence.
Can you hear the turmoil in their breeze?
They scamper around flowers and grasses;
they head for the city in search of you. Listen to them,
listen to them clearly as forests sibilate for shelter
while smoke fills the lung of their homes.
Can you hear the terror in the raven’s flight?
They flutter their wings in chaos
while winds push them away from torment.
They resist to seek for safety as their eyes startles in their hearts a vision
that men will not listen to the wind’s crisis.
Can you hear the resistance in their wings?
You see, now a days, rivers stream the blood of our brothers.
We bathe in sin. We drink its waters until all of our ancestor’s diseases run in our veins.
So all the wind can do, it’s call for your name.
Can you hear the wind’s lament?
In the cities, a few women cry themselves to sleep.
They weep agony to their dreams in hope to extinguish the flame of reality,
but instead they awake to an inferno every single day.
Can you hear the calling of your name?
I hear it. I hear it every day. I hear it in the subway, in the streets, at church.
I hear it everywhere. They call your name in prayers. In supplications,
they plea for help.
How then will you hear the Wind’s lament?
If I’ve been told that fire burns till hunger is fed,
that it doesn’t matter how many tears are shed
hunger will always be a part of a man’s heart.
So I ask, How will you hear the wind’s lament?
If fire burns till hunger is fed, if winds with their touch
spread flames unconsciously, and if it doesn’t matter whether it feels hot
men will not see a fire unless they see smoke.
So I ask you, how will you hear the wind’s lament?
if men can starve to death, and that it doesn’t matter
how many times they call your name, you will always listen and reply
to the calling of your name just by men.
But men are blind and deaf; they speak because they can
but they do not see nor hear anything other than themselves.
the poor winds, they search for you while on the roads
they spread the meadow’s fire, not knowing the cities burn in darkness
and that soon they will burn in a living hell.
Unless men listen to the calling of their names.
Unless they listen to the calling of nature’s plea for help.
Written by: L.L.