Stonehenge

Amidst the rolling hills of green,
Where ancient mysteries lie unseen,
Stands a circle of stones so grand,
A monument of an unknown hand.

Stonehenge, they call it, a wonder of old,
A place where stories and legends unfold,
Whispers of magic, of gods and kings,
Of druids, and rituals, and sacred things.

In the hours of Springrise, a new life begins,
As nature awakens from her winterly sins,
And Stonehenge, too, seems to come alive,
As if a resurrection of times gone by.

The sun rises high, and the air is crisp,
The stones stand tall, as if in a mystic tryst,
The morning dew glistens on the green,
As if a sign of a sacred dream.

Amidst this magic, a sense of hope,
Of new beginnings, a way to cope,
As if the stones themselves proclaim,
The promise of life, the end of the game.

So, on this cycle of resurrection and spring,
Let us gather at Stonehenge and sing,
Songs of joy, of hope, and of love,
And let the stones bless us from above.