The gale, a voice unheard, beckons phantoms of whispers
through the forsaken corridors of souls.
Their murmurs caress the cobwebbed dusk,
a symphony crafted in the deserted echoes.
Moonlit song woven into the breath of the night,
hovering over the graves of memories lost.
A dirge for the senses, a hymn for the unseen,
in the wind's undying waltz beneath starry vaults.
Listen — the eternal dance of specters
that trace the contours of the whispering winds.
In the rustle of leaves, silhouettes linger and dissolve,
their voices the haunting lullabies of solitude.