Soft as whispers, white as bone, Lilies bloom where silence is sown. Bathed in moonlight, kissed by woe, Rooted deep where sorrows grow. Their petals hold a quiet grief, A fleeting breath, a life so brief. Yet through the dusk, they dare to rise, A hymn of grace in mourning skies. Ghosts of longing, pale and pure, They bloom where wounds must learn to cure. A symbol not of death, but love, A final touch, a hand above. So let them wither, let them fade, For even loss is beauty made. And in the dark, where silence stays, Lilies hum their softest praise.