A Symphony at Dusk

The sun leans low, a tired king,

Cloaked in crimson, whispering.

The sky, a canvas brushed in flame,

Writes in silence its fleeting name.

Birds take flight in fading bands,

Conductors with invisible hands.

Their wings beat soft, a violin’s tune,

Echoing gently beneath the moon.

The river hums a cello’s sigh,

Shadows stretch, and branches reply.

Cicadas strum on trembling strings,

While twilight hums what evening brings.

The clouds assemble, a choir in gray,

Breathing hymns as light slips away.

Each star that pierces the velvet dome

Is a silver note, guiding us home.

No hall could hold this grand refrain,

No human hand could script its name.

For dusk composes without a pen,

A symphony lost, then born again.

So linger here, where day grows thin,

Let music rise, let night begin.

For those who listen, hearts unshut,

Hear dusk’s last song the world has cut.

***

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