The Mosquito's Song

In twilight's hush, the mosquito sings,

A tiny beast with fragile wings.

It seeks a meal, a drop of life,

But oh, the pain, the endless strife.

It buzzes nearby with stealthy grace,

A hunger that it must embrace.

Its needle-like probe, a deadly kiss,

Leaves behind a mark, a bite, a miss.

Innocent blood, a red prize,

Drawn by those relentless eyes.

It drinks its fill, a stolen feast,

Leaving us with suffering, not the least.

A maddening itch, an endless itch,

A torture that won't ever switch.

Scratching till the skin turns red,

While tears of anger are softly shed.

It's just a bug, you might proclaim,

But in its wake, it's not the same.

For in its sting, it leaves its trace,

A memory of that haunting chase.

So spare a thought for the mosquito's plight,

A creature small, in the dim moonlight.

It aims survival in the dark,

Leaving sorrow with its tiny mark.

Though it breaks our peace, our calm,

But dies with our heavy palm.

For even in its painful grace,

It plays its part in nature's embrace.