Fragments of pang had been what remained after the storm of betrayal and deception,
Having destroyed every hope and delight in the garden of dreams and desires.
Beneath the silvered sky, where shadows twisted and writhed,
The mournful wind sighed through the trees, whispering the names of the dead.
Tears had fallen from broken statues, their faces frozen in an eternal lament,
As vines of despair coiled around forgotten graves,
And the moon had cast its pallid glow upon the crumbling walls of forgotten chapels,
Where echoes of dismal laments lingered like ghosts in the mist.
In that desolate place, where time itself had seemed to abandon its course,
The air was replete with sorrow, heavy with undisclosed secrets.
The raven had perched high above, its eyes reflecting a darkness deeper than the night,
Watching with cold indifference as ghouls wandered aimlessly below.
No solace had been found in that ruinous haven,
Only the faint murmur of lost hope, swallowed by the abyss of time.
The candles that once burned bright in the halls of joy had long since flickered out,
Leaving only the void to claim what was left of a shattered heart.
Amidst the ruins, a sculpture had stood cloaked in mourning,
Its face hidden beneath a veil of grief,
Waiting, always waiting, for the return of what was never meant to last.
And so the night had stretched on, endless and unforgiving,
As the world slowly forgot everything, what had remained within those walls were only fragments of pang.
The ancient doors had creaked, their hinges rusted with centuries of neglect,
Opening to a hall draped in shadow, where silence reigned supreme.
Cobwebs had veiled forgotten portraits, faces blurred by time’s cruel hand,
Their eyes had seemed to follow, scrutinising, though none were left to speak.
Each stair step seemed to bend through the emptiness, a faint reminder of those who had tread there before,
Doomed to wander, searching for deliverance in a place forsaken by light.
The stained glass windows, splintered and dim, had wept colours long faded,
Casting spectral hues on the cold stone floor like fragments of a shattered past.
A faint susurration had dwelled in the hollow corridors—
It did not belong anymore to any living entity but only to broken vows and wrecked promises.
Words had been lost in the wind, although the pain had still lingered in that eerie domain,
A haunting refrain of love betrayed, of hearts sundered by the cruel hand of fate.
There, beneath the weight of centuries, the walls themselves had seemed to whimper,
As if they remembered every misery that had passed within their embrace.
The ceiling, a vault of darkness, had offered no stars to guide the lost,
Only the oppressive heaviness of forgotten dreams trapped in endless night.
Beyond the hall had lain a forgotten vault where stones and crystals had stood vigil,
Like haunting faces turned heavenward in silent, mournful invocations.
But no utopia had answered their plea; the sky above had remained as cold and indifferent
As the graves, offering neither comfort nor release.
There, the cold soil itself had seemed to breathe with ancient dread,
A slow, shuddering sigh beneath the feet of those who had dared to tread.
Gravestones had tilted and cracked, their inscriptions worn smooth by the passage of time,
And, all those mortal names had been forgotten; their suffering had remained etched in the wind.
Fragments of pang had wandered, lost among the tombstones and ruins,
As solitary wraiths in a world of decay, bound to the pain of what once was.
Since in that place, time had held no meaning, no mercy, only the endless march of despair,
As the night had stretched on, unyielding, beneath the weight of a cruel and cynical fate.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
