Fingers of cold wind pull jet-black hair from a tightly wound bun. The wind dries the tears on a scared face. The wind tears at a silky black scarf. She stands alone, her tears drying in the wind. The wind screams at her, whirling dust and leaves at her, she stands strong. Tears in her eyes and a grave at her feet, she is immovable. Alone in a wide graveyard, clad in black lace. Again and again her blue eyes read the carved name, hoping every time that tears will hide the truth. Another gust of wind hits her full on, her black cloths are thin, but she cannot feel the cold. Suddenly she sinks to her knees, tracing the name over and over with long fingers. She closes her eyes and rests her head against the grave. Her head is spinning, and her heart is broken. The wind screams at her, but she is immovable. She has become as stony as the grave she leans on.

A little boy sits inside the hollow of a tree. His eyes are closed, his head resting against wood. His skinny legs are crossed, and his hands are full of acorns. He looks asleep, but he isn’t. He listens. All around him the old trees whisper. Their leaves move in the strong wind, giving the silent beings voices. To the boy, this is the most beautiful sound in the world. He is part of the tree. Not moving an inch, just listening. The hollow of the tree circles him like a mother’s arms, he is hidden and protected.

Winter wind pulls at a loose coat. The young man does not look down. Instead he looks to the grey sky, empty of sun and of clouds, it is just one colour. The wind bites at his face, he does not flitch. In the middle of the city, it is rare to hear the screeching wind. He stands so high that he can now. For a moment he listens, hoping for some message in it’s screaming. There is none. It is a just a screeching. Tired of this noise, he jumps. The wind whistles now, but the ground is still far. The wind tears at his coat, pulling it out around him, giving him wings. He is flying, he is falling. A smile spreads across his sad face, finally it’s over.

A sudden gust of wind rustles the dry grass. It turns the golden stems into ripples, making a sea on dry land. Old eyes watch this dry sea. Eyes that have seen the world, and now have no one to share it with. The eyes slowly blink, for the eyelids are heavy. The old man looks across this autumn field. He is not the man he used to be, his feet are heavy, and time is slow. He remembers so many things, but the wind was always there. For the wind never leaves, the wind never dies; the wind is his one and only friend.

The wind tears a cheery blossom from its mother tree. The wind carries it a distance. Then lays the delicate flower to rest. The blossom is unscathed by the wind. Away from its sisters, the blossom seems out of place, but even in this new, desolate place, it’s beauty shines. Its soft petals face the sky, light pink it seem to watch the clouds go by. Then a soldier’s boot falls upon it. Mutilated it still lies there. Still looking at the sky, it’s beauty destroyed, it still watches the clouds go by.