The earth has secrets, soft and deep —
She writes them green on every hill.
Spring’s voice is but a wordless hymn…
To listen — is to be fulfilled.
A single bud, the world in bloom,
Where shadows dance with April’s light,
The mountains wear their cloak of moss,
To guard the dawn from winter’s night.
The stream, a poet, sings in stones,
Its verses carved in ancient tongue,
While roots, like veins, beneath the soil,
Embrace the stories left unsung.
We are the breath of sun-warmed soil,
The echo where the lark has flown —
To walk this path is to become
A seed the earth has always known.
Spring s voice
© Copyright: Василиса Сирин, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071601712
Свидетельство о публикации №125071601712
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