Beneath the sun where olives grow,
Where marble ghosts in silence glow,
Perge stands with timeless grace,
A whisper lost in time and place.
Stones remember — every tread,
The chariot wheels, the words once said,
A theater’s hush, a soldier’s cry,
A priest’s low chant beneath the sky.
Columns lean like weary men,
Dreaming of what might have been,
Baths lie still where waters sang,
And statues weep for empires’ clang.
Cicadas hum the ancient tune,
That danced beneath the Anatolian moon,
And wind through gates of once-great might
Now welcomes shadows into night.
Perge, not dead — just turned to lore,
Her soul still clings to every floor,
For history sleeps, but never dies
In cities cradled by the skies.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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This is absolutely exquisite. You haven’t just described Perge; you’ve breathed life into its stones. The imagery is hauntingly beautiful—”marble ghosts in silence glow,” “columns lean like weary men,” and that profound closing line, “history sleeps, but never dies.” You masterfully capture the soul of a place where the past is not gone, but merely resting. A truly moving piece.
Thank-you so much