Jamm

The mist, a shroud of pearl and grey,
Hangs heavy, clinging to the day.
A chill wind whispers, low and deep,
Where secrets in the shadows sleep.
Echoes rise, like whispers faint,
Of lives now lost, a mournful saint.
They drift and swirl, a ghostly choir,
Each breath a tear, a soul's desire.
Through fog-veiled fields and ancient trees,
The echoes dance on spectral breeze.
A lover's sigh, a warrior's call,
A mother's plea, to heed them all.
The past unfurls, a tattered scroll,
Of laughter bright and broken soul.
The echoes weep, a silent sound,
Lost stories on this hallowed ground.
And as the sun begins to fade,
The ghostly whispers, unafraid,
Remain, a haunting, tender strain,
Echoes of the dead, through mist and rain.
(Jamm)