VI. The Hymn of Nightfall

The evening bends, a choir without refrain,

its voices woven out of flame and shade.

The sky, once bright, now wears a softer chain,

a tapestry where grief and grace are laid.

The gold dissolves, yet still it leaves a glow,

a memory of warmth within the cold.

The shadows rise, but not as empty woe—

they crown the night with mysteries untold.

And in this hush, I hear a sacred sound,

not silence, but a hymn of darkened light.

Its cadence holds me close, the earth profound,

and turns the loss of day to holy rite.

So dusk becomes a temple for my heart:

both light and shadow consecrate their part.