Then these sounds will be wind,
when they rise up from their place, then
they will blow away, will be wind.
We have breathed and our breath was
as the sighing of trees around a house,
we have murmured and our lips
murmured like a garden under rain,
we have spoken and our voices
strayed like birds above a roof.
Because we were searching for our name.
But only the wind knows the place
that we were, where and when.
[via poetry international]