I am enamour’d of the swans in flight,
That cleave the air with grace none may outshine;
Of trembling roofs hid far from mortal sight,
Where falls of silver veil the ancient pine.
I love the scents that haunt this ruin’d ground,
The hues that linger where all else decays;
For in this city, lost and sorrow-crown’d,
Some secret peace in shadow’d silence stays.
Perchance beyond the tempest and the thrall,
There lies a hallow’d place, untouched by all.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 8:35 AM UTC
I am enamour’d of the swans in flight,
That cleave the air with grace none may outshine;
Of trembling roofs hid far from mortal sight,
Where falls of silver veil the ancient pine.
I love the scents that haunt this ruin’d ground,
The hues that linger where all else decays;
For in this city, lost and sorrow-crown’d,
Some secret peace in shadow’d silence stays.
Perchance beyond the tempest and the thrall,
There lies a hallow’d place, untouched by all.
A love not for perfection — but for the fragile beauty that survives ruin, for stillness beyond chaos, for the sacred hidden places of the world and heart.