Southern Silence
Beneath the oak, where shadows lean,
Old stones remember what’s unseen.
The mountain hums a gentle hymn,
A rainbow bends where light grows dim.
The flags still flutter, tattered, worn,
By whispers of a past long torn.
In stillness, echoes softly call,
The Southern silence holds it all.
The hills keep secrets, low and deep,
Of prayers and promises they keep.
And though the winds may shift and sigh,
The silence speaks, it does not lie.