Veiled Echoes

Upon the yellow dawn’s bright gleam, A hue that haunts like distant dream, It whispers soft of sunlit fire, Yet hides a sorrow most dire. In amber waves that lap the shore, The gilded light speaks evermore, Of faded hopes and fleeting days, Lost within its golden haze. The pallid sky, a jaundiced glow, Casts shadows deep where none should grow. Like the sickly pulse of failing heart, Yellow tears, they fall apart. O, cursed shade, thou dost betray, A fevered light in sweet decay. Beneath thy veil, the mourner cries, In yellow death, the daylight dies.

The Angel of Death moves quietly, through a world that hums with life, its wings dark as the void between stars. No fanfare, no grand arrival— just the hush of time folding in on itself. Mortals hold tight to their fragile days, clutching at moments like scattered leaves. Life seems long until it isn’t. We are the keepers of time, until time lets us go. The Angel comes without sound or fury, with hands that cradle more than they take. No need for fear, no need for fight— just the closing of a chapter, the soft end of a song. Flesh and bone, so easily worn, carry us until they can’t. And when the Angel arrives, it is not a thief, but a guide home. We fear death, yet we carry it with us, in every breath we exhale, in every heartbeat, a reminder— live while the flame still dances. For in the quiet, the Angel waits, not as an end, but as a hand that leads us gently into the dark, and beyond.