Whispered upon a mid-summer breeze,
Swept away by confusion,
Tender gestures not yet known,
Distraction unto your absolution.

With clamour all around, we cross
Blades and vines and arrows.
Yet in these moments, you step aside
To a welcome home from your barrows.

One last breath of jungle air,
One final swish of your tail,
Your paws upon loam or cavern,
With final goodbyes spoken.

Whispered words upon that mid-summer breeze:
'I do not understand the question, Speaker.'
I did not understand then either,
But now this summer is bleaker.

Now I speak just for you,
For all the goodbyes never spoken.

Goodbyes whispered on the mid-summer breeze,
Across winter snow flurries and autumn gales,
The goodbyes lost on the wind,
By voices not strong enough without being broken.

Now scattered on the wind,
You are the mid-summer breeze.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Valnuary, in the year 952 AF.