In shadows deep, where silence weeps,
Larkinâs voice, eternal, sleeps.
His words, a whisper in the dark,
A candle’s flicker, a fleeting spark.
He pondered life, its fleeting grace,
The empty spaces we embrace.
His visions, stark and somber, told,
Of truths that leave us feeling cold.
Yet in his death, a light remains,
A poet’s soul, free from its chains.
His legacy, a haunting song,
In verses where we all belong.
We mourn the loss, yet celebrate,
The timeless words he did create.
For Larkin’s death is not the end,
But where his echoes still extend.