The Dying Castle
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The ivy's green, a slow and silent thief,
Has claimed the stones of glory and of grief.
The crenellated edges, sharp and high,
Are soft with moss beneath a weeping sky.
The mighty gate, where banners used to fly,
Now frames a vista where the seasons die.
The drawbridge rusts, a severed, useless arm,
No longer guarding from a world of harm.
The wind sings low through arrow-slitted cracks,
Recalling ghosts of long-forgotten attacks.
The grand banqueting hall, so vast and wide,
Has only dust and silent shade inside.
The carved and gilded windows, now shattered they are,
Allow the rain to wash the broken vow
Of endless rule, of power's endless boast,
And leave behind a melancholy ghost.
The spiral stair, a spine of solid stone,
Leads up nowhere, empty and alone.
The vaulted roof, where once a fire burned,
Is open now, for stars to be discerned.
A story told in whispers, slow and deep,
While generations sow and fall and sleep.
And in the quiet, where the lichens creep,
The ancient, stone-cold secrets it will keep.
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