Writers 
The Island
Beyond the restless waves of the endless blue,
There lies an island beneath the morning dew,
A quiet piece of earth, embraced by the sea,
Where the wind sings softly, wild and free.
Palm trees dance when the warm winds blow,
Their emerald leaves moving to and fro,
Golden sunlight touches the sandy shore,
While gentle waves whisper forevermore.
The island wakes beneath a painted sky,
As clouds drift slowly and seagulls fly.
The ocean sparkles like a field of glass,
And little boats through the waters pass.
There are footprints scattered along the sand,
Made by travelers from distant lands.
Children laugh as they chase the tide,
While fishermen sail with the morning wide.
At noon, the sun burns bright and high,
Painting silver paths beneath the sky.
The island rests in a peaceful glow,
While secret gardens quietly grow.
When evening comes with a purple hue,
The stars appear in the heavens so blue.
The setting sun kisses the ocean's face,
Leaving behind a golden trace.
At night, the island becomes still,
And the moon shines softly over every hill.
The waves continue their ancient song,
A gentle rhythm, steady and strong.
The island keeps stories no book can tell,
Of sailors who came and lovers who fell.
It holds every dream carried across the sea,
Every hope of someone longing to be free.
And though the world may call from afar,
The island remains beneath moon and star.
A little paradise, peaceful and wild,
Where nature and silence remain reconciled.
So if someday my heart needs somewhere to hide,
I will follow the wind and cross the tide.
To that distant island, where worries cease,
Where the ocean sings and the soul finds peace.
