Strange is the wind which blows over the lost desert, for in that howling waste, whispers may be heard of ancient cries to battle, echoes of the love songs of the long dead, the boasts of princes in their chariots, and the sigh of the old sitting at the gate. So many voices, so many tales, and all forgotten, incomprehensible. You sit and you hear it in the wind, their memories, disjointed and unknowable. The sun beats down on you, and the sands stretch out into the horizon. The wind passes over, and you shiver, even in that deadly heat.
Strange Is the Wind
Tale Told 