The River of Bones

In the valley where shadows cling, There flows a river without a spring. Its waters pale, its whispers low, A winding path where none dare go. The reeds are brittle, the banks are stark, Each stone bleached smooth, each corner dark. And buried deep within its flow, A thousand secrets churn below. They say the bones of the lost reside, Swept by the current, forced to glide. And if you pause to listen near, The river hums its song of fear. “Come closer now,” it seems to call, “Your name, too, will join the sprawl.” Its voice is soft, a ghostly plea, A siren-song of misery. A wanderer once, with courage bold, Dared to seek the tales it told. He knelt to drink; the water stilled, And in his mind, the air was filled— With screams of sorrow, grief, and pain, A thousand lives, their cries in vain. The river claimed him, flesh and bone, Another soul to call its own. Now every dusk, the valley weeps, As shadows dance where silence creeps. The river flows, unbound, untamed, Its current chanting every name.