The night grew darker and the babel hushed,
To their beds, the orphans rushed.
One by one sound asleep,
While through the curtain slit, Peter Pan peeped.

He crawled into the hut, silent as a grave
Played a melody, with an unusual octave.
That night had been quiet ghostly, odd and peculiar
Yet strangely enough, the orphans sensed no fear.

The melody chimed like a beautiful lullaby,
Frosty December cold seemed to have vanished, and it felt like warm July.
The misery and sorrow appeared to be ending,
As though time had stopped and reality was bending.

Soon it was morning with the crack of dawn,
But the hut lay silent, as if the children were gone.

With no guardians to search for the stray,
Lifeless bodies left on the floor, stiff and grey.
The little ones fell into a deep slumber, one with no breath,
A slumber that was led by the angel of death.

However, beneath the bed was a note that read,
“Off to Neverland, we now head”

                                                               ­                                                     -Yashaswee Das