A shadowed chord now fades from mortal air,
The strings fall still where once his fingers flew.
Night holds its breath to hear what is not there,
Yet feels the ache of notes it always knew.
He walked the edge where sorrow turns to flame,
Where beauty blooms from wounds the heart must keep.
In whispered storms he taught our ghosts their names,
And lulled our restless doubts to gentler sleep.
Though silence claims the room he used to fill,
The sound he shaped outlives the closing door.
Each echo proves his art is breathing still,
A pulse that time and death cannot ignore.
So let the dark give thanks for borrowed light;
His song remains, our guide through endless night.