She sits beneath a dying moon,
Her voice a wound, a quiet rune.
She sings to loss, to faded years,
Each note a tremor made of tears.
The stars look on but do not weep,
They guard their silence, cold and deep. No echo stirs, no heart replies,
Just empty wind and empty skies.
Her love once bloomed now turned to stone, A rose that wilts unseen, alone.
She sings to ashes, to the past,
A song too fragile… to ever last.