Sangre Viento

 

The night turns cold in anticipation,

No sound is heard, no movement made.

There is no wind, as of yet,

But one will come.

A name is spoken,

Into the night.

A leaf stirs, The sand shifts.

Becoming patterns of Life, patterns of Death.

The wind becomes,

A being of Light and Dark.

Whispers emerge that can be heard by all,

But few can understand their meaning.

It comes from its birth,

Of Good and Evil.

And the Wind becomes

Sangre Viento.