The tide breathes in with whispered grace,
Foam-laced fingers trace the sand’s face.
Shells like secrets, strewn with care,
Each one a story, silent and rare.

Driftwood thrones and seaweed lace,
Patterns drawn, then gone, no trace.
Gulls cry overhead, bold and free,
Dancing with the salt-stung sea.

Pebbles sing beneath bare feet,
Warmed by sun and ocean’s beat.
A crab retreats with sideways glance,
Caught mid-step in nature’s dance.

The shore is where the world exhales,
With tales in tides and wind-filled sails.
A place where time forgets to keep—
Its wonders wash both wide and deep.

Along the winding mountain trail,
Where silence speaks and breezes sail,
A tower rises, small and true—
A whisper built of gray and blue.

Each stone, a thought, a breath, a prayer,
Placed with hands both worn and bare,
Balanced edge on softened curve,
An ode to grace, to hope, to nerve.

They do not shout, they do not fall,
But hold their stillness, proud and small.
Markers left where others roam
A fleeting shrine, a grounded home.

No mortar binds, no string, no glue,
Just trust in weight and what stones do.
And in their hush, they gently teach:
That peace is found where balance meets.

Silent sentinels,
grain sleeps beneath rusted crowns
wind hums lullabies.

Beneath the sun's eternal gleam,
Where stones remember empire's dream,
The Forum stands in silence vast,
A whispering echo of the past.

Once rang with voices bold and loud
Senators swayed the gathered crowd,
Where Caesar walked with steady tread,
And mighty words were forged and said.

The marble cracked, the temples bare,
Yet gods once breathed immortal air,
Through arches grand and columns high,
That now reach faintly to the sky.

The Vestal flames, forever gone,
Still flicker faintly in the dawn,
As ghostly figures stir the dust,
Their glory buried, yet unjust.

But time, though ruthless, can't erase
The Forum’s soul, its ageless grace.
It speaks in ruins, proud and worn—
Of Rome eternal, never torn.

Beneath the shadowed grace of Alpine peaks,
Where nature’s soft whispers kiss the valley floor,
Revello dreams in stone, where silence speaks
Of ancient steps and legends gone before.

Its towers rise like sentinels of time,
Ochre clay glow beneath the saffron skies,
The bells still toll their melancholic chime,
As dusk drapes gold across the hills that rise.

Through cobbled lanes and vines of ruby thread,
The village breathes in slow, eternal ease,
Each shuttered home, a tale the past has said,
Each breeze, a prayer caught in the chestnut trees.

O Revello, in you the old world stay
A quiet hymn sung through the Amalfi days

In silent groves where giants sleep,
The redwoods rise, serene and deep.
Their bark like time, in layers worn,
Through centuries of mist and morn.

They do not shout, they do not sway—
They listen to the wind's ballet.
Their crowns are veiled in coastal shroud,
A kingdom built above the cloud.

Beneath their feet, the forest glows,
Where fern and shadow softly grow.
A hush of green, a breath so wide,
You feel the earth's long pulse inside.

Each trunk a tower, calm and wise,
A story stretching to the skies.
To stand among them is to feel
That life is vast, and time is real.

Golden domes at dawn
Hope springs in scholar’s bright hearts,
Legacy endures.

Beacon grounded firm

Savior in the dark and storm

Concrete guard overseer

Emerald hills in morning's grace,
Where ocean winds the cliffs embrace,
Stone walls stretch wide across the glen

A shift, a crumble, now and then

Heather blooms in purple fire,
Bog and mist and turf inspire,
Sheep like clouds on slopes reside,
Where time itself forgets to glide.

Each path a story, each breeze a tune,
Each night adorned by silver moon—
Ireland, land of light and lore,
You hold the soul forevermore.

We speak their names in whispered breath,
Those who faced the dark and danced with death.
Their echoes stir the morning air
A legacy beyond compare.

They stood when others turned away,
Held the line and bore the fray.
Not for glory, not for fame,
But love and duty when called their name.

The world moves on, as worlds will do,
But hearts still bleed as we remember you.
We plant the flags, we ring the bell,
We hold the stories they can’t tell.

And though the years may steal their face,
Time cannot touch their boundless grace.
For in our silence, in our tears,
Their courage lives across the years.

So light the torch and raise it high
Our honored heroes never die.

In quiet squares or palace halls,
Where marble glints and water falls,
The fountains sing with fluent tongues
An ageless song, forever young.

They rise in arcs like dancers' grace,
A trembling joy upon their face.
Each droplet leaps, then bows again,
A dutiful child of sky and rain.

Some whisper low in shady nooks,
By ivy walls and storybooks.
Others roar with pride and power,
Like thrones that rule the garden hour.

At dawn, they greet the waking sun,
With mirrored light and motion spun.
At dusk, they glow in lantern’s gleam,
A lullaby, a lover’s dream.

Coins are tossed with silent plea,
Hopes that ripple endlessly.
Fountains know, but never speak,
The prayers that mortals shyly seek.

Though stone may crack and time may rust,
They dance through years, through love and dust
A hymn to motion, carved in stone,
Forever flowing, yet alone.

Fall drapes the hills in woven flame,
With leaves that whisper summer’s name.
A breath of smoke, a sky of gold,
The air turns sharp, the days grow old.

Crisp apples blush in orchard rows,
And frost begins to kiss the rose.
The geese draw letters in the blue,
A fleeting script the season knew.

Boot heels crunch on amber trails,
As wind unbuttons maple veils.
The light leans low, the shadows climb
The world walks slower into time.

There’s beauty in the letting go,
In every branch stripped bare of show.
For Fall, though brief, is wise and kind
It teaches peace, and leaves behind.