Beneath the cathedral's stone embrace,
whispers of forgotten epochs
linger, traceless as specters in mist.
An illegible script,
etched in the sepulcher of time,
breathes a dissonant chorus.
The night, a servant to none,
guards these slumbering relics
with a watchful silence.
In the decay of ink and parchment,
there lies an unseen melody,
a cadenced rhythm of what once was.
Histories erased,
but never truly gone,
haunt the margins of memory,
where scribes, trembling, blotted truths
beneath the watchful stars.