Crying Skies, Rain And Discarded Memories

set in broken stones

In the yellowing pages that hold history so rich,

The beauty of time is magic, magic beyond that of a witch,

The essence of the eras, that are now beyond our reach,

From the stones so ancient and the old castle near the beach.

The withering bricks of a building, that almost died in the war,

The tales surrounding a place so enchanted, often mistaken for folklore,

And she skips down the old castle, like a bud inside its whorls,

Feet bare as the ocean, underestimated depsite its roars.