Beneath the autumn’s golden hue,
A poet’s voice is stilled,
Edna’s words, once vibrant and true,
Now in silence, the world is filled.
Her verses danced with moonlit grace,
Echoes of love and pain,
In every line, a tender trace,
Of a soul that could not feign.
The nightingale no longer sings,
Its song of sorrow deep,
For in the heart where poetry springs,
Edna finds eternal sleep.
Yet in each stanza, she remains,
A beacon in the night,
Her legacy, like gentle rains,
Nourishes our silent plight.