In half-light whispers sway the grass,
the shadows spin as moments pass.
A step, a sigh, so faint, so slight,
the evening burns in crimson light.
The cabin stands in silent wood,
its soul in moss and weathered good.
A window stares with ancient ache,
a wound the hush will never break.
Two spirits drift without a sound,
through dreams where time is loosely bound.
A glance, a stillness, barely stirred,
yet hearts beat loud without a word.
The twilight path – a narrow thread,
of longing where the light has fled.
Who dares to walk its shadowed line
will lose the day – and truth may find
