In twilight’s hue, a figure bends,
A moment lost where sorrow tends,
The world once bright, now dims its light,
As dreams give way to fleeting night.
Beneath the trees, where children play,
A stumble steals the grace away,
Innocence of years long passed,
A scrape upon the heart is cast.
The fallen leaves whisper the pain,
Of hope that falters, dreams in vain,
With gentle hands, he wipes the earth,
A fleeting ghost of laughter’s worth.
His knee, a canvas marked by tears,
A testament to hopes and fears,
Each drop a memory, softly spun,
Of battles fought and races run.
Yet in that scrape, the lessons soar,
Resilience blooms when hearts implore,
For though the ground may bid him stay,
The spirit rises, come what may.
So as he cradles scars of time,
The echoes linger—soft, sublime,
In every fall, a chance to rise,
A testament beneath the skies.