Whispers float through fields of bloom,
Underneath the foxglove moon.
Silver light drips through the trees,
The night is humming, soft and deep.
Your shadow moves, a fragile tune,
Beneath the spell of the foxglove moon.
Petals glow where secrets sleep,
In garden air so rich, so sweet.
Your voice a ghost, a fleeting rune,
My heart belongs to the foxglove moon.
And I don’t know what’s false or true,
When the sky turns violet blue.
Under the foxglove moon,
We’re woven into bloom.
The night forgets our names,
But still ignites the flame.
Whisper slow, the stars will swoon,
In your arms beneath the foxglove moon.
The air is thick with soft perfume,
Of dying stars and sweet monsoon.
Your hand in mine, a fragile thread,
Between the living and the dead.
The forest sighs, the river gleams,
We move like smoke inside a dream.
I taste the dark, I feel it bloom,
Inside the light of the foxglove moon.
And time dissolves, the night stands still,
The world bends softly to our will.
Under the foxglove moon,
We’re woven into bloom.
The night forgets our names,
But still ignites the flame.
Whisper slow, the stars will swoon,
In your arms beneath the foxglove moon.
Oh, love a poison, sweet and pure,
The kind of ache that feels unsure.
But every bruise becomes a tune,
When played beneath the foxglove moon.
Under the foxglove moon,
Our souls drift out of tune.
Yet in the dark, we bloom,
Forever caught in silver hues.
Whisper slow, the night will croon,
For love reborn beneath the foxglove moon.
Whispers fade through fields of bloom…
I’ll meet you there — beneath the moon.
