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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The sea keeps its dead by teaching them the language of salt. Time is less gentle. It teaches them sand. Each century bends above its work, patient as a millstone. A king becomes a grain. A child becomes a grain. A hand once held by another hand becomes a grain. By morning, the glass is full of them. They gather in the upper chamber like pale weather, pressed shoulder to shoulder with ruined cathedrals, unwritten letters, the last breath of a wolf in a forest that no longer exists. Then the falling begins. Not all at once. One ancestor at a time. One promise at a time. The neck of the hourglass is so narrow that forever must pass through it single file. Listen. The sound is almost beautiful. An empire brushing against a lullaby. A wedding ring striking the rib of a shipwreck. Snow settling inside an abandoned mouth. The grains arrive below without their names. Without their faces. Without the color of their eyes. Yet something survives. A warmth. A longing. The faint memory of being awaited. Sometimes a grain hesitates at the throat of the glass. Caught for a moment between what was and what will be. I think that is where ghosts come from. Not from death, but from the brief terror of becoming smaller. Outside the window, another generation is planting gardens, building houses, swearing forever into the dark. Already the hourglass is learning their weight. Already the centuries are sharpening their edges. The glass says nothing. It has seen oceans made from bones. It has watched stars shed their light and join the falling. Still it stands, holding two worlds apart: those who are becoming memory and those who do not yet know they are. When the final grain descends, there is no judgment. No trumpet. No great unveiling. Only a hand older than history turning the hourglass over, and the dead rising together like a constellation returning to its first shape.
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