The silence claims the dwelling, cold and stark,
Where once our evening laughter used to bloom;
Now winter spreads its mantle in the dark,
And paints with frost the corners of the room.
I seek in vain the footprint on the floor,
Within this hollow hall where mem’ries sleep;
Time holds its breath, you come to me no more,
And through my veins the chill begins to creep.
No bitter gall, no rage, no final cry,
Just tasting grief as fading stars descend;
Your image pales beneath the sullen sky,
Like fragrant scent brought gently to an end.
The book must close, the candle cease to burn,
I bow before the mist that veils the blue;
My soul shall keep, though seasons may return,
The beauty found within my loss of you.
Sorrow is not merely an ending, but a quiet transformation. This poem invites the reader to sit with their grief not as an enemy, but as a guest. By honoring the void left behind without anger, we allow the sharp edges of loss to soften into a cherished, albeit melancholic, memory.
