The Unsung Angel

She walks when starlight folds the day, Where silence grows and shadows stray. A hush upon her silver wing, No scythe she bears, no reckoning.

Her hands, like dusk, both soft and sure, Turn endings into something pure. She does not take—she only guides The falling leaves the wind confides.

Each soul, once loosed from time and breath, She plants within the soil of death. And in that dark, unseen below, A garden stirs, begins to grow.

Not tomb but root, not loss but bloom— A quiet bursting from the gloom. The meek, the bold, the frail, the proud, Now petals in a field unbowed.

She tends them through the endless years, With hands of mist and eyes of tears. And when the stars forget to shine, They’ll still be blooming, row by line.

She hums a tune no tongue can claim, And peace, not sorrow, speaks her name.