What is left

What is left

In the air, a soft, warm breeze.
 In the breeze,
a gentle sound.
In the sound,
a name of love. In the name, of some profound, pure, and sweet gift of grace,
for all times remembered well.
In such a gift,
an island sea of gracious hills and tropic dreams.
A place to turn to,
when far away,
to ignore all pain in limpid streams,
 its golden shores
 and sandy ways of luscious forest and palms of faith. Such the young tenacious land
born upon a time of tenderness.
 The brightest sun, the mountains
touched that day in the endless song of light,
 and there were fountains of joy
 spilling life for long.