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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My spices that reek in my kitchen locker; My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips. The praying mark on my forehead is a lonely pigeon In the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto, watching the sky .. 1 Wandering its strange sight in the daylight, In the blue dome, in the heavy clouds, In a mountain top hiding the horizon. A lonely pigeon in the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto, Looks for once to the laurel darkness, Then flies to the tip of whiteness And vanishes in the horizon. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. The people in my small phone index are a rainy forest; Its branches with the wide leaves, at the morning, keeps us from rain; At noon is a shield from winds and being hunted; At night is a clamber for every passing suspicion. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My formal white robe on my fixed arm is a new road By which I pass through, filled with hope at the head of every new year By the side of the road. Tents are already fixed With its Gypsy wandering and the hands are the stranger's destination Stigmatized; they derail the extreme loads on his back And roll the wine, time after time, in his mind, till he was covered by dusk. 2 At the morning he opens his eyes "THE END OF THE ROAD", And clears out his bags afraid "THERE ARE NO EXCUSES", In the medicine book "NO PRESCRIPTION .. NO CURE". And I always get back to the road, step on the emptiness, And from the shallow side of my broken arm, the robe goes down. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My spices that reek in my kitchen locker. My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips. The bird that I once gifted you, came back -- His thin bones now at the eyes of guests is the dinner's destination. And the people at the door of my old grave are twaddling and telling me, unbored, about the exploits of regret .... Forewarning me from the departure And silence And hope, Without seeing the worms on my corpse as sheets -- Sheets of bitterness and pain.

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Telling Me About Regret

O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My spices that reek in my kitchen locker; My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips. The praying mark on my forehead is a lonely pigeon In the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto, watching the sky .. 1 Wandering its strange sight in the daylight, In the blue dome, in the heavy clouds, In a mountain top hiding the horizon. A lonely pigeon in the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto, Looks for once to the laurel darkness, Then flies to the tip of whiteness And vanishes in the horizon. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. The people in my small phone index are a rainy forest; Its branches with the wide leaves, at the morning, keeps us from rain; At noon is a shield from winds and being hunted; At night is a clamber for every passing suspicion. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My formal white robe on my fixed arm is a new road By which I pass through, filled with hope at the head of every new year By the side of the road. Tents are already fixed With its Gypsy wandering and the hands are the stranger's destination Stigmatized; they derail the extreme loads on his back And roll the wine, time after time, in his mind, till he was covered by dusk. 2 At the morning he opens his eyes "THE END OF THE ROAD", And clears out his bags afraid "THERE ARE NO EXCUSES", In the medicine book "NO PRESCRIPTION .. NO CURE". And I always get back to the road, step on the emptiness, And from the shallow side of my broken arm, the robe goes down. O Girl, They are telling me about regret. My spices that reek in my kitchen locker. My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips. The bird that I once gifted you, came back -- His thin bones now at the eyes of guests is the dinner's destination. And the people at the door of my old grave are twaddling and telling me, unbored, about the exploits of regret .... Forewarning me from the departure And silence And hope, Without seeing the worms on my corpse as sheets -- Sheets of bitterness and pain.