In shadows deep where whispers dwell,
The clock ticks on, a solemn bell.
Each moment fades, a fleeting breath,
In quiet halls, we question death.

Beneath the stars, the silence grows,
A chill that every soul soon knows.
Time’s gentle hand, its subtle art,
Marks every beat of the fragile heart.

Philip Larkin’s somber gaze,
Through words, the truth he did appraise.
In shadows cast by life’s brief span,
He pondered time, the plight of man.

Yet in the stillness, echoes ring,
Of life’s sweet song, its fleeting wing.
In death, a quiet, soft release,
A final note of lasting peace.