Cliff, Child of Wind

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In ’61 a young boy stood
On the hills of old Jamaica’s wood.
Hurricane Hattie roared like a lion,
But he felt the storm was something he was riding on.
People ran and prayed for peace,
But in his chest the thunder wouldn’t cease.
He whispered soft, with wide-open eyes:
“I am the wind… I’m the rising skies.”

Child of the wind, born from the storm,
Turned all the trembling into a heartbeat warm.
Now he sings by the ocean where freedom begins —
A reggae soul made from the child of the wind.

Years rolled on like the waves at dawn,
He carried that storm inside, never gone.
But the fury changed its shape and tone —
Became a drumbeat deep in his bones.
He found a guitar, let the breeze decide
How his fingers moved, how the truth would glide.
And every song he learned to play
Was the echo of that hurricane day.

Child of the wind, born from the storm,
Turned all the trembling into a heartbeat warm.
Now he sings by the ocean where freedom begins —
A reggae soul made from the child of the wind.

No more fear in the sky above,
Only rhythm, courage and love.
From the storm he learned to rise,
From the music he found paradise.

Child of the wind, rising again,
Carrying sunshine where darkness had been.
He sings for the people, for the life he reclaimed —
A reggae fire that no storm can tame.