In a garden where dreams first ignite, A worn-out kite whispers of flight. Once held by children, hands small and bright, Now rests beneath the monkey tree's sight. Its colors faded, tail unraveled, Stories of skies in the breeze are traveled. Yet now, no gaze turns to boughs unarrayed, Its laughter's echo, a memory decayed. In the shadow of branches wild and free, Quietly, beneath a monkey tree, A relic of joy finds its peace, In the hush of rustling leaves, its lease. Though cast aside, with dignity it lies, Awaiting dusk with wistful eyes. A final nod to winds that swayed, An ode to games and flights delayed.