In shadows deep, the poet lay,

His quill now still, no more to say.

The open books, the verses free,

Now rest in silent memory.

He foresaw the end’s embrace,

A destiny he chose to face.

“One day,” he mused, “this time will cease,

And with it, find my soul’s release.”

Yet in his home, the echoes dwell,

Of love and pain he knew so well.

Some deny the reasons why,

Others with the truth comply.

The room untouched, a shrine to light,

Hopes lingering in the quiet night.

But the flame has flickered, now grown dim,

The poet’s journey at its brim.

His spirit soars beyond the sky,

No longer bound by earthly tie.

The words remain, a legacy,

Of passion, pain, and poetry.

Till the end of July..