In the stillness of a winter’s breath,
His words now whisper through the leaves,
A poet’s life, a quiet death,
A soul at peace, the heart that grieves.
He walked the paths of solitude,
With verses etched in silent screams,
A mind that wandered, deeply brewed,
In shadows of forgotten dreams.
The library of his thoughts now closed,
No more to pen the nightâs despair,
His final chapter, now composed,
In echoes, he is everywhere.
And though the world turns on its way,
His legacy, it softly stays,
In every line, in every play,
A timeless tribute to his days.