In the shadowed corridors where time's hand no longer treads,
echoes linger, softly murmuring tales of ash and shadow.
Voices of the ancients rise, anew, in haunting chorus,
weaving through cold stone halls like mist through weeping trees.
Once, they spoke of forgotten glories, of kingdoms
gilded in the light of a sun long extinguished.
Now only remnants remain, brittle words etched
upon the pale hearts of scattered dust.
"Listen well," they whisper, "for the walls remember
what the living choose to forget." An age-old refrain,
a lament woven into the very fabric of stone
and silence, binding past and present in dire embrace.
Here, in this sepulchral space, where whispers turn to wails,
one might find solace in the decay of all things transient.
Stand and be still, let the echoes guide your way
to places unfathomably deep, the heart's own abyss.