Elegy of the Magician of Letters

In whispers and shadows, he danced,  
a conjurer of ink and parchment,  
where words breathed life into existence,  
woven dreams unfurling on pages.  

Once an architect of thoughts—  
he spun syllables like silk thread,  
each phrase a spellcast in twilight's glow,  
painting worlds unseen to the naked eye.  

He spoke in riddles wrapped in metaphors,  
and with each stroke of his quill,   
the mundane transformed to magic—    
stardust sprinkled on weary souls.

But time is a thief wearing no disguise;   
it crept upon him like fog at dawn—   
silencing the symphony within his heart,  
leaving echoes where laughter once lived.  

Now we gather fragments of his ethos:    
letters strewn like fallen leaves beneath ghosts;    
the moon hums forlornly through empty halls—     
his absence carved into every line left unsaid.

We name him “lost,” but what is lost?     
Is it only flesh that fades from light’s embrace?   
Or do legacies linger in whispered tales?           
An alchemy binding us all — still alive!

O Magician! Your fervent charms don’t dissolve;   
they drape around us as we shoulder sorrow.
Your voice lingers softly in each chorus sung,
a melody stitched forever into hearts' fabric.

As candles flicker dimly along this path,
we hold your stories close — dear elegy;
through written breath you taught us well–
how letters can incant truth beyond despair.

In solemn reverence we now inscribe:
to remember is to reanimate what was—
for though you’ve vanished beyond our gaze,
your magic endures—a timeless embrace.