Poetry

Thank

Thank you, a word that hums like low wind, Soft as a sigh through autumn trees, Wrapped in gratitude, it finds A place where quiet kindness breathes. We thank the sunrise for

Torch

In the night’s hush a torch flares bright, A steady beacon against the dark, Its flame a quiet promise, warm and light, Guiding wandering steps till morning’s spark. Hold it close, feel

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

Press

Ink‑stained fingers trace the age‑old press, Where lead and type once sang in rhythmic quest. The clatter of the forme, a steady beat, Whispers of stories that the world would meet. Now

Beaut

In a quiet lane where lilacs sigh, A single rose unfolds its hue, Petals blushing soft as sky, A modest bloom, a gentle brew. Its fragrance drifts on evening air, A whispered promise,

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