When giants cry, the world will know,
As rivers surge and valleys grow,
Their icy hearts, once cold and still,
Now melt away by nature’s will.

The ancient bones of frozen time,
In mournful tears, begin to climb,
From mountain peaks to ocean’s shore,
A solemn tale of what they bore.

With every drop, a whispered woe,
Of ages past, of ice and snow,
They crumble slow, yet we ignore,
The giants' grief, their final roar.

The glaciers weep, their tears set free,
To flood the lands, to swell the sea,
Yet in their cry, a plea remains,
To heed the call, to break the chains.

​For when the giants weep and wane,
The earth will tremble with their pain,
And in their tears, the truth will lie,
Of what is lost when giants cry.

Political banners, colors bright,
Wave in anger, left and right,
Debate and discord fill the air,
Power's game, a ceaseless snare.

Yet here I am, beneath the trees,
Where whispers float on summer's breeze,
Away from tumult, sweet release,
I wander fields where wildflowers grow,
In nature’s arms, a gentle flow.

The world’s a storm, but I remain,
In my own world, apart from pain,
I find my solace, find my way,
In simple moments, day by day.

Let them argue, let them fight,
In their chaos, I take flight,
Churches bicker, parties rage,
Their endless wars, a troubled stage.

But I find peace in quiet streams,
In twilight’s glow, and moonlit dreams,
While doctrines war and leaders vie,
Beneath the vast and open sky.

​Let them fight their righteous wars,
I’ll walk my path, through open doors,
In simple joys, my heart will sing,
Content to do my own small thing.

By Robert Stanhope

​Hands touch soft and rough,
Velvet whispers to the skin,
Sandpaper's tough love.

Cotton balls so light,
Brushing cheeks with gentle warmth,
Softness feels just right.

Fingertips explore,
Silken threads like water flow,
Smooth and cool for sure.

Tree bark, coarse and firm,
Nature's rugged embrace holds,
Strength within its form.

​Textures tell their tales,
Each a world to be explored,
Autistic child roams.