In the quiet silver of the moonlit night, Death steps softly, cloaked in pale light. He moves through shadows, serene and still, A silent keeper of the final will. The moon, a mirror to our fleeting breath, Reflects the calm, enduring face of death. Its light, a whisper from the distant past, Reminds us all that nothing here can last. In its quiet phase, a crescent thin, A silent sliver, a subtle grin,