Belonging, perhaps, to faces in the fire,
What do they mean, those voices in the wind?
Their secret whispers, shouts or frantic screams
Are never silent, be it night or day.
What is their purpose? What are they trying to say?

Perhaps, like whales, they sing a private song
To other winds, who snatch it as they pass,
And sweep it far away, to fill the air,
Above the realm of human hopes and fears,
Beyond all thought of happiness or tears.

Perhaps, like dogs, the winds communicate
The feelings of the moment, warm or cold,
Friendly or hostile, never very deep,
A simple message, timorous or bold.

Perhaps they have an urgent task on hand,
Some truth to give the heedless human race,
And maddened when we do not understand,
Burst out from time to time in storms of rage.

Perhaps, in tones of wisdom that belie
The flickering goblin faces, they will speak
As soon as we can hear, and when we know
The question we must ask, they will reply.

One thing is sure. Unless some Wellsian shroud
Of silent immobility enwraps
An ageing planet in its deathly folds,
And life has gone, and everything is still,
No breath of air, no tremor in the sky,
The voices in the wind will never die.

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