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Isn't it strange how we cannot see the air, but we feel every bit of it,
it slips into our lungs without asking, leaves without farewell,
and yet, we call it nothing, but it is something, the breath between silences,
the ghost of a world in motion, unseen but always present around us.
It weaves through the trees like a wandering soul, caresses the skin like a forgotten memory,
and when it gets angry, it does not speak, but roars with the power of an untamed storm,
not to harm, but to be heard, like the call of an untamed spirit.
Air is not empty, it is the invisible daughter of the Earth, wild and tender,
a spirit without form, yet full of feeling, a presence that cannot be ignored.
And don't emotions live just like that, unseen and yet sovereign,
they slip into our hearts like dusk, change the colors of our days,
without ever showing their face, but leaving their mark deeply.
Grief comes like a cold wind, sudden and sharp, love like a breeze through the chest,
anxiety, a storm locked in the lungs, hope, the first breath after rain.
What is air if not the language of the planet, gentle, violent, sacred, and pure,
what are emotions if not the air within us, moving, shifting,
never still, never silent, like an eternal song of the soul?
We are made of both: the winds of the world and the winds of our soul,
seen by no one, but felt by all, a dance of the unseen and the felt.

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