A shimmer lost in twilight’s breath,
A gilded wisp of light bereft.
It flickers soft on crumbled stone,
A dying flame, yet not alone.
The dusk enrobes its fragile glow,
A remnant torn from long ago.
Yet even in the night’s embrace,
It lingers still—a silent trace.
What hand once cupped this ember bright?
What heart once swore against the night?
Time drinks the stars, yet some remain,
A glow that hums beyond the wane.
For even ghosts of golden hue
Can burn in hearts where hope is true.
And though the dusk may take its due,
Its hollow sings in light’s adieu.
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