In the moonlit marsh they gather,
Cloaked in emerald green,
Tiny choir of the evening,
Singing songs serene.

Beneath the silvered branches,
Their voices gently rise,
A symphony of whispers,
Beneath the starry skies.

With every croak and chorus,
They paint the night in sound,
A melody of nature,
In the darkness found.

Oh, the frogs of twilight,
Their songs a soft embrace,
A gentle, soothing lullaby,
In the marshland’s quiet grace.