When twilight drapes the world in lavender hue,
I hear the hush of verses yet unsaid;
Each line a feather, soft as morning dew,
And thoughts take wing where quiet hearts are led.
In gardens where the silvered shadows play,
The moonlight writes its script upon the leaves;
Our whispered dreams, like moths, are drawn to sway,
And love, a lantern, flickers, never grieves.
But time, that tireless scribe, will turn the page,
And verses fade like footprints in the sand;
Yet in the hush, a new sonnet finds its stage,
And sings the world a gentle, endless chant.
So read these words, let rhythm be your guide,
For poetry lives where hearts reside.