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"The stars beckoned her song to reach the crescent moon"

In a quiet glade where the willows weep,
And fireflies dance as the world finds sleep,
A girl with cheeks like a rosy bloom
Would sing to the stars by the silver moon.

Her hair was long, like a raven’s flight,
It shimmered soft in the hush of night.
Her skin was pale as the lily’s grace,
And love lit warm in her round-cheeked face.

Though others stared, she never knew
That beauty comes in more than view.
Her voice, a bell so soft and pure,
Could stir the hearts of rich and poor.

The stars beckoned her song to reach the crescent moon,
They shimmered brighter with each gentle tune.
The breeze would hush to hear her sing,
And owls would hush mid ghostly wing.

She sang of dreams that never tire,
Of humble hearts and secret fire,
Of love not bought, of skies not torn,
Of joy in dusk and peace in morn.

Each night she stood by the mossy stone,
And though she stood so oft alone,
The heavens heard her lullaby
And wept sweet tears across the sky.

One night, the moon, in gentle swoon,
Slid lower just to catch her tune.
It kissed her face with argent light,
And held her song in velvet night.

And from that hour, the woods would say—
Though she grew old and passed away—
That if you walk where she once stood,
You'll hear her song drift through the wood.

So if you find your soul in gloom,
Let music rise and sorrow swoon—
For the stars still beckon every tune
To dance its way to the crescent moon.

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