WHISPERING ECHOES OF PAST TIMES:

I hear those whispering echoes, of times long gone by,

Lost upon old dead wings, of lives, that soar away & fly,

The voices of monks singing, from steeples in grey mists,

Timbers creaking of old galleons, on oceans as they list.

 

I hear trundling down cobbles, of the cooper & his dray,

The chanting of dead nuns, at their rosaries as they pray,

The little cockled maiden´s call, “Come buy, alive, alive O´”,

The singing of old farmers, wielding long gone pick & hoe.

 

I hear whispering echoes, of those past & long gone times,

Those songs of life whispered, in stories, tunes & rhymes,

Upon ancient history´s tired sighs & raspy rusted breath,

Those memories of old sounds, now only, in echoing death.