The tides still reach though hands grow thin,
Oars lie quiet where once they’d been.
From spade to sail, from heart to shore,
A song remains, but boats no more.
Beneath the hearth where old tongues weave,
A tale is born in ember’s sleeve.
The voices rise, the echoes call,
In fireside lore and shadowed hall.
A bard’s bright words, a poet’s strain,
Still whisper through the lashing rain.
Let not their song fade, nor their rhyme-
For stories guard the soul of time.
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Wonderful Arqios it had touched my heart