In the quiet hours of a fading light,
Where shadows linger in silent flight,
The ticking clock marks the relentless beat,
As life and death inevitably meet.

Larkin’s voice, a whisper in the wind,
Speaks of days lost and moments pinned,
To the pages of time, worn and frayed,
Where every breath is a fleeting parade.

The certainty of an end, a solemn truth,
Echoes through the corridors of youth,
Yet in the heart, a quiet understanding grows,
That life is but a transient prose.

So let us cherish the dawn’s soft grace,
Embrace the journey, not the race,
For in Larkin’s words, we find the way,
To live each fleeting, precious day.