Mourn

In the hush of a grey dawn, we mourn,
Footsteps softened upon the dew‑kissed grass,
A single bell tolls, low and solemn,
While shadows linger where laughter once passed.

We lay our wreaths of white and deep‑blue,
Threads of memory woven through sorrow’s loom,
Each petal a whisper, each sigh a hue,
Binding the lost to the living’s gloom.

Yet in the quiet, a tender hope grows,
Like spring’s shy buds pushing through winter’s snow,
For love, though veiled in sable, still glows,
And in mourning we find the courage to go.