Place

In the hush of morning mist, a place awakes,
Where cobblestones whisper under soft footsteps,
And lamplight spills like honey on wet stone,
Painting each façade in amber‑toned grace.

Here the river sighs, a silver ribbon,
Winding past gardens where roses blush,
Their perfume mingling with fresh‑baked bread,
From the bakery whose sign swings slow.

Children’s laughter echoes from the square,
A chorus chased by the distant toll of bells,
While old men sit on benches, sharing tales,
Their voices low, like pages turning slow.

When dusk descends, the sky turns lavender,
Streetlights flicker on, one by one, like stars fallen,
And the place holds its breath, a quiet promise—
That tomorrow will return, familiar and true.

So this is the spot where memory lives,
Not just in stone or river or light,
But in the feeling that settles deep,
A sense of belonging, ever‑lasting, ever‑kind.