Hamnet – a breeze that passed away,
A childhood brief, a soul astray.
Eleven years, a fleeting run,
Departed too soon, dreams undone.
Father writes beneath pale moon,
Each word falls heavy, sorrow’s tune.
Hamnet, where has your shadow gone,
Your name still echoes in plays long.
Hamlet was born, a voice of pain,
Perhaps a father’s grief remains.
Each character, each tragic scene,
Carries the breath of what has been.
The garden lost its laughter bright,
Birds still sing, but chairs lie quiet.
Mother holds vast memory’s stream,
Of sunny mornings, rivers of dream.
Hamnet – a dim but shining star,
A tiny light that glows afar.
Though life was short, fragile, small,
Your spirit shines beyond it all.
Father pens his tragic lore,
Each page engraved with longing sore.
Hamnet, your dream lingers on,
Your name immortal, never gone.
You left, but left a ringing sound,
Like bells that never fade around.
Hamnet – a flame pure and true,
Burns in memory, ever new.
Though life was brief, Hamnet dear,
Your name shines bright, forever clear.
