By the wan light of sister moon
these grassy, shells of rooms.
are draped with brooding shadows.
Inside these ancient castle walls
hovering spirits whispers sibilant
songs through crumbling stones.

From the chapel anguished voices
chant requiems in eerie tones
for victims of the dread Black Death.

In the great hall, dancing ghosts,
like slowly swirling smoke,
sway trancelike to the music
of harp and lute: the scene
illumined by the flickering flames
of tar-tipped torchlight.

Incorporeal sounds press
loud upon my ear; disjointed
fragments of mediaeval airs.

Long dead knights and ladies
converse in hushed whispers
of murder and conspiracy.
A confluence of gathering
souls proclaim aloud, dark deeds
of treachery and villainy.

Outside the ramparts, thundering hooves
of wild-eyed horses conjure up
scenes of bloody, mortal combat.

High on these ramparts where banners once
proudly waved the castle unfurls
its chequered history for me.

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