Whispers of the Old World

Beneath the bells of ancient towns,

Where ivy climbs on weathered stones,

A silent song through time resounds—

a psalm for the dreams that the earth still has. Cobblestone paths in morning mist,

The stories the wind once kissed echo, Footsteps of poets long since gone,

However, their words continue to exist in the breeze. In amber light of autumn’s gaze,

The vineyards hum forgotten praise,

Of lovers lost and letters burned,

And clocks that tick where none returned.

A single rose by chapel wall,

Blooms where the Roman shadows fall,

And marble saints with broken hands

Still guard the faith of dying lands.

The moon still writes in silver ink

On Venice’s canal-lit brink,

While violins from ghosted halls

Float gently through baroque-lit walls.

O Europe, cradle carved in art,

You wear your scars like ancient chart.

Each ruin, poem; each war, a rhyme;

Your eternal soul is marred by time.