In the garden where shadows dance,
Robins sing of life’s fleeting chance.
Their melody, a gentle plea,
Echoes softly through the trees.

Beneath the sky, so vast and wide,
They flutter close, as if to guide.
Through the veil that time has spun,
Their wings embrace the setting sun.

In whispers low, they speak of peace,
Of journeys where all sorrows cease.
Their vibrant hues, a fleeting art,
Painting solace on the heart.

As twilight falls, they take their flight,
Into the arms of endless night.
Robins lead with grace and breath,
To realms beyond the touch of death.