During the creation, God first whispered “dream” and immediately after he said “wind.”
“You are the wind, the messenger that will carry the dreams in the form of words to the ears of people.”
A daunting task indeed, so many dreams, a world of words, so much to tell, very little time.
Long is the journey that travels the wind, from north to south, from east to west. His freedom has become his prison, because he is only an admirer of life, from which he is not participant. The wind wanders in anonymity, everyone is aware of his existence but just a few truly know him.
One day, in his endeavor to carry the autumn, the wind stopped at the top of a hill, curious of a young boy standing before a short and slender tree with two prominent branches that resembled limbs and a treetop scarcely covered with the remaining leaves of the summer, now chestnut and dried, posing as head. Even when the human resemblance was obvious, the tree was rather ugly. But this situation didn’t discourage the boy who declaimed to the tree as a troubadour to a damsel.
“I could praise your beauty with a thousand words, but I know you have heard them all. I could write a book about you, but no cover would make justice just like no envelope can decorate a rose.” Repeated the boy over and over again dutifully, rehearsing his intonation until he did it perfectly. “So I come before you to ask for your forgiveness.” Continued the boy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry because I lied to you. I lied to you, but most importantly I lied to myself. I forced myself to believe you were someone else. I crafted my reality out from falsehoods. That I didn’t love you, that I didn’t need you, that your absence will only hurt my pride. I was wrong about you. I was wrong about us.”
The arms of the boy fell discouraged and his sight sank to the bed of dried leaves that had fallen just like his hopes.
“But I want to tell you,” muttered the boy. “That even if for you this is the finale. And if to my eyes, you never will regard. My love for you like a star will always shine. Because my heart is incapable of leaving it behind.”
The wind beheld the young poet, as he declaimed a ravishing poem that the wind was sure will never forget.
As the dusk settled, the wind continued his path, passing through a small village at the foot of the hill. The silence was broke by the ruckus caused by a man inside his house, that made his way until the door kicking the furniture and throwing enamelware. The door flew open and a dun rat shot out frightened.
“Don’t you dare to come back you disgusting hag,” the man bellowed from the doorstep and threw an earthenware bowl that smashed against the rocks, scattering the leftovers of the porridge he was eating.
The rat ran into the woods carrying a slice of bread without looking back. Once hiding in the shrubs the rat finally halted and let her pounding heart to relax. This time had been close, but a loaf of bread could worth the risk.
The wind contemplated the rat enjoying her well-earned prize, thinking about the words of the man, pondering what a creature like rats have done to deserve the dislike of everyone. Could it be that they are ugly? But the resemblance to other respected creatures like beavers or raccoons dissuaded the wind. All the wind could see was a creature striving for survival.
The piece of bread fell from the rat’s muzzle and her pupils dilated.
The bread was not just bread, it was a trap. Her keen sense of smelling had betrayed her. It was because of the adrenaline that she could not smell the poison smeared on the bread? It was pointless to delve now in that.
The rat staggered out of the bush with labored breath. Her last wish was to die calmly without hide. She lay over the grass feeling her entrails convulsing like if were torn by knives. Cramps on the muscles of her paws extended high over her head contracted her tiny fingers as she was trying to catch the stars that decorated the celestial dome.
The wind saddened witnessing such a torment. The once wild and energetic life of the rat was vanishing and would leave this earth passing her last moments in solitude, without the comfort of the kind words of the loved ones. Those warm words that maybe she never heard, born destined to carry the curse of her kind—being the disgusting creatures that everybody loathed so much. No man ever told her she was beautiful, charming nor special. No poet dared to compose a verse to the ugly ones—unless it was a tragedy.
Then the wind felt the spark of his new purpose.
“I could praise your beauty with a thousand words, but I know you have heard them all. I could write a book about you, but no cover would make justice just like no envelope can decorate a rose.” The wind carried the words of the young man into the rat’s ears. “That even if for you this is the finale. And if to my eyes, you never will regard. My love for you like a star will always shine. Because my heart is incapable of leaving it behind.”
The words eased the rat’s last moments, until her belly flattened releasing her last deep breath, and then stood immovable.
The wind summoned a bunch of dried leaves that fell over the body like tears on a shallow pond.
“To depart the wind is ready now,
Because the bright star has abandoned the sky,
While the wind gently weeps,
And even if many winters he awaits,
He knows the star will never come back,
Because the shooting star rips the sky like a lightning,
Heading to where the heaven ends,
Illuminating the dreams as passes by.”
“You are the wind, the messenger that will carry the dreams in the form of loving words to all creatures.”
M. Ch. Landa