The Last Song of the Black Cat
Upon the midnight moor I roam,
beneath the stormy sky;
a black cat sings a sorrowful tune,
where restless shadows fly.
He prowls along the ancient way,
with tales of grief and flame;
a rogue of claw and velvet coat,
who bears a haunted name.
The old trail calls across the vale,
the thunder rolls afar;
his song rides wild through every gale,
beneath a broken star.
He tells of ships and savage seas,
of battles lost and won;
of wanderers who chased the dawn,
then vanished from the sun.
The hunter hears the midnight song,
and halts beside the heath;
for legends born in darkest hours
hold secrets underneath.
The black cat cries a rebel hymn,
a ballad fierce and free;
a lonely soul with burning pride,
beneath the ancient tree.
So raise your gaze, ye souls of grit,
who march through storm and rain;
for every heart may find a song
inside its deepest pain.
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