The Quite Hour
Submitted By: Pranya Khawas
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When dusk dissolves the gold of afternoon, And hush descends upon the restless air, The sky becomes a bruise beneath the moon, A silent witness to the world’s repair. Leaves speak in hush-toned riddles to the breeze, And shadows stretch like secrets on the ground. A single star ignites among the trees, Its pulse a quiet, ancient, endless sound. I walk alone, yet never feel apart— The dark, a cloak; the wind, a whispered name. Some hushes hold the shape of beating heart, And in still air, the soul becomes a flame. Though day may clamor, bright with joy or grief, The night arrives with quiet as belief.
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Reg ID: BF25-5733
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