Underneath the ancient oak, they sing, the robins’ gentle tune,
As shadows lengthen, dusk arrives, beneath the silver moon.
Their melody, a symphony, a dance of life’s own breath,
Yet whispers in the twilight air, of nature’s cycle, death.

The crimson feathers ruffle soft, as twilight turns to night,
Each note they sing, a fleeting sound, like whispers taking flight.
In every chirp, a story told, of days both young and old,
Of life that blooms and fades away, as seasons’ tales unfold.

Beside the grave, where lilies grow, they perch in silent grace,
Their songs a bridge ‘tween life and end, in this hallowed place.
The robins’ eyes reflect the stars, the mysteries they see,
Of souls that wander, free at last, in death’s tranquility.

So listen close, as robins sing, their serenade so pure,
For in their gentle lullaby, lies solace, calm, and cure.
Embrace the night, the silent dark, where robins find their rest,
And know that in the end, we too, will join them in the nest.