Beneath the skeletal trees, where shadows cling tighter than forgotten embraces,
whispers weave through the mist like forgotten hymns,
voices of the ancients echo, marking time
with intonations sinister and sweet.
Do you remember the yesteryears, when the moon wept blue,
drenching the cobblestone paths in liquid dreams?
A bell tolls at the witching hour, reverberating through
the heart of the forsaken cathedral, whose windows shatter
with every silent scream.
In this labyrinth of memories, etched by hands unseen,
the reverie persists—an eternal dusk,
a carousel of spectral visages spinning
in the hollow light, their laughter a dirge, their sorrow a song.