Elegy

In quiet chambers where the echoes dwell,
We lay our grief upon the stone of time,
Each line a flower, soft as twilight's spell,
A whispered hymn to those who climb no more.

The elegy is not a mournful dirge,
But tender labour of the heart’s own art,
It weaves the lost into a silver verge,
Where memory and hope refuse to part.

We trace the contours of a fading smile,
With ink that bears the colour of regret,
Yet in each stanza love walks mile by mile,
Turning sorrow’s shade to soft moonlight.

So let our verses be a quiet feast,
A tribute paid, where peace and loss unite.