In the twilight of the meadow, where shadows gently dance,
Robins sing their final song, a melancholic trance.
Their melodies, so bittersweet, whisper tales of days gone by,
As evening’s curtain softly falls, beneath the darkened sky.

Among the rustling leaves they flit, their plumage bright yet worn,
Each note they sing a testament to mornings yet unborn.
The winds of fate begin to stir, an autumn chill descends,
And with each breath, the robins know, this cycle never ends.

The whispers of the forest, the sighs of ancient trees,
Echo through the robins’ song, carried by the breeze.
In their eyes, a fleeting glimpse of life’s unyielding grace,
As nature claims her own once more, in her eternal embrace.

So sing, dear robins, sing your song, though night is drawing near,
For in your notes, the world shall find a solace for its fear.
And though the dawn may never break upon your wings again,
Your symphony of life and death will in our hearts remain.