In the silent corridors of thought,
Where shadows linger and memories fade,
Larkin’s pen uncovers what is sought,
In lines that echo, quietly displayed.
He whispers truths of final breaths,
Of lifeâs brief dance with fleeting grace,
In words that speak of time and death,
A mirror held to the human face.
The ticking clock, a constant friend,
Reminds us all of what must come,
In Larkin’s verse, we find the end,
Yet also lifeâs persistent hum.
With gentle irony, he writes,
Of dreams deferred and hopes unspoken,
In the darkness, he ignites
A flame of wisdom, softly broken.