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Music:  She Moved Through the Fair

Whispers - Home
Friday's Journal
Old New Orleans
Scenes from the Emerald Isle
Making its way through the still, silent harbor,
Encircling the morning in the arms of dawn,
Moves the mist on its long, dream-like journey
Over the cliffs and the deep sands of time.
Rising slowly on scattered moments,
Into the day the mists vanish and go,
Eyes now see clearly - know and remember -
Searching the past for their old and trusted friends.
The beauty of Ireland and the prose of C. A. Schlea
High above, the rainbow shines,
Only a cloud or a raindrop away,
Painting the future in colors of hope,
Ending, beginning, where no eye can see.
The voice of the sea whispers and murmurs,
Revealing its mysteries to those who listen,
Understanding somehow what is held deep within,
Secrets shared and entrusted
To those few who can hear.
Flowers grow and bloom together,
Reaching out to sun and sky,
In wind and rain, still they blossom;
Each one fragile, yet somehow,
Nourished by the others,
Drawing beauty from each other's lives.
Down from the heights where minds only imagine,
Rivers of white water cascade and fall,
Engaged in a race for the streams below.
As each drop descends, it carves out the future,
Marking the time on the face of the earth,
Shaping tomorrow from the hopes of today.
Beneath a rising mist,
Endlessly reaches the far horizon...
A meeting place for earth and sky.
Under the watch of the passing seasons,
Through every moment, it moves and changes,
Yet, year after year, it remains the same.