Truant Winds And The Setting Sun

It’s inception lying in small flurries of an unknown trigger,

the wind sailed on and on, through landscapes,

blowing the desert sands off their sleepy slumber,

flowing through the veins of the sad tree leaves,

penetrating through windows many, breaking,

breaking a glass or two, peeking into souls of many,

momentarily caressing the lazy sun,

quietly hiding behind those fluffy cumulonimbuses,

it wished, it wished to never stop today,

never wane down, to just keep blowing,

blowing through itself, in itself.

It looked down at the surrounding, as daytime slowly,

slowly gave way to a faded glow, arising from itself,

splattering across to the horizon, to the sky,

and the sun wished, if it was possible, possible to,

not set behind those mountains, behind those trees,

lined up behind the horizon, encompassing the seas,

if at all, it was possible, to hide behind those fluffy cumulonimbuses,

and stay there, as is, but, but for that truant wind,

the truant wind, that keeps blowing so, so fast,

most likely to blow the clouds away, and then, like every day,

the sun has to set, follow the daily routine,

and those similar monotonous cycle repeats itself,

all over, again.