“About Death”

In quiet hours when day departs,  
A hush wraps gently ‘round our hearts;  
In twilight’s tender, muted breath,  
We ponder the old riddle: death.

Not rage, not fear, but hush and rest—  
No thunder in the silent chest.  
A field that’s sown with vanished seeds,  
A tree now bare where robin feeds.

Is death the end? A closing door?  
Or, like a tide, a further shore?  
We clutch the hands we love and trust,  
While wondering: Dust returns to dust?

Yet morning glories bloom anew  
From soil that once held drops of dew.  
The stories whispered, laughter heard,  
The love reshaped in kindly word.

Though none escape the night’s cool sweep,  
There’s promise in the dreams we keep—  
A peace that hushes every pain,  
The gentle merging with the rain.

So let us walk with softened tread,  
Honoring both the living and dead;  
For every ending softly starts  
A birth again—inside our hearts.

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