Someone writes on me to send to you on their travel trip, Made of thicker paper that's less likely to rip. On my front, I have an illustration that's a pretty sight, But my back remains blank for one to write, I'm a souvenir lover's delight!

Folded wisdom in your glove box, guiding hands as they roam, paths drawn in ink, a paper oracle of roads.

I hold up mountains, yet my top is flat, a table for giants, where clouds come to chat. High above valleys, wide open and grand, a fortress of stone carved out by the hand.

I have no doors, yet I keep you inside. I'm built from the cold, a temporary hide. What am I, where arctic winds cannot chide?

Raised to honor someone momentous, I stand where all may look and adore