Sing Poem by Skylark Woodrow
Sing
Sing to me your song of silence,
Your murmuring lute,
Your whistling pitch,
Your howling rage.
Sing to me the secrets of your kind,
Of all the things you see in forgotten places,
Of all the scents of far off things.
(2019.10.7)
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: wind,nature,sing
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7/26/2025 8:34:38 PM # 1.0.0
Scents of far off things, great write