Whispers of the Glen

A stream whispers low through the ancient stone. The winds hum a tune,

a song of their own. Leaves dance in a rhythm only they know.

Oh, echoes, oh, echoes. The glen holds

your name through forest and meadow. Your song stays the same. Oh,

echo, oh, echoes. Soft as the flame.

The moon casts her glow on the silver lake. The stars write

a tale no voice could remake. Each step feels a story, each breath

a new wave. A harp in the distance calls to the trees.