Poetry

Naive

Naive hearts beat soft in morning light, Trusting the world with a gentle sigh, They see the sky as a promise bright, And miss the shadows that wander by. In cobblestone lanes

Tepid

In the kitchen’s quiet hour, the kettle sighs a tepid hum, its steam a shy, reluctant plume that drifts across the chilly floor. A cup of tea, half‑warmed, half‑cool, holds the colour of

Happy

In sun‑kissed mornings, laughter bubbles bright, A gentle hum that lifts the heart’s delight. The world awash in golden, warm repose, Where worries melt like frost before the rose. Hands clasp in

Prime

In the quiet hush of number’s line, Prime stands tall, a solitary sign— A lone integer, indivisible, pure, Its only friends are one and itself, for sure. From two’s first whisper to

Glyph

In the hush of script’s quiet realm, a single glyph awakens— a whisper carved in ink or stone, its curve a secret, softly spoken. It dances on the parchment’s breath, a loop, a

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