Sissel South


I don' t call the wind, "wind".

She's too beautiful for such a word.

I call her, "inspiration",

I call her, "aura".

Feel the breath upon you,

And be thankful for it.

For the trees have to wait for Inspiration to talk.

Slowly, they clap around.

Feeling warm and clothed in her sweet Aura.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


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