Called to me, soft and clear,
Rumi, Gibran, Sappho, held so dear.
Rumi whispered of a love unbound,
Where hearts find rhythm, without a sound.
Gibran painted wisdom, with gentle hand,
Of life's sweet sorrows, across the land.
Sappho sang of beauty, bright and bold,
Stories of women, bravely told.
Through them, I learned, words take flight,
A soul's own language, in dark and light.
Poetry is not just ink on page,
But feelings flowing, on life's stage.
A quiet talk, with something deep,
Secrets the heart, forever keep.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 2:47 AM UTC
Called to me, soft and clear,
Rumi, Gibran, Sappho, held so dear.
Rumi whispered of a love unbound,
Where hearts find rhythm, without a sound.
Gibran painted wisdom, with gentle hand,
Of life's sweet sorrows, across the land.
Sappho sang of beauty, bright and bold,
Stories of women, bravely told.
Through them, I learned, words take flight,
A soul's own language, in dark and light.
Poetry is not just ink on page,
But feelings flowing, on life's stage.
A quiet talk, with something deep,
Secrets the heart, forever keep.
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