The Whispering Grove

Right in the center of the grove where the voices hush.

Where shadows and sunlight entertain.

Where ponderous trunks of antique years go.

Hence, the day is lost to time.

The leaves, like emerald tears, drift down.

For a light airy step.

As the whispers of the forest in harmony and in fusion,

In nature's soft embrace.

Narratives of bygone days flow like a brook.

With a sound so clean and sweet.

And together with its laughter resonating with that of the deer,

As twilight draws near.

Lichen-overgrown rocks, a wise man’s tome,

With tales imprinted in green,

Cordially tell the wanderer to look.

Beyond the world’s routine.

The moon rises, a silvery queen takes to the skies.

Her light a tender kiss,

Smothered on petals of dreaming sleep.

In this bower of delight.

And where, in this timeless grove, whispers play.

And a soul is redeemed once more.

Amidst the branches that believe,

In skies forever blue.

Here the heart learns forgiveness,

At night when the lights out and everything is dark.

And in the grove, which is a soft sieve,

Seeks to get wings to soar in the open sky.

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