Holding a torch up high,
Buried under ancient stone,
Eyes peruse a broken tomb.

The birds do not cry.
The rivers are still.
The stars are black with cold.

With gold and white
Given way to sand and night,
A shadow of light
Has left the world.

In these halls, even death has faded,
Leaving lines on walls
That talk with tongues
Long torn by time and war.

Dark once more,
The carvings give the void
A silent voice.