The moon hangs low, a bone-white stare,
Upon the hushed and sleeping town.
Each window holds a hidden prayer,
As lonely whispers tumble down.
A phantom breeze through empty streets,
Carries the scent of yesterday,
Of laughter that no longer greets
The dawn, now turning cold and gray.
The ivy climbs a crumbling wall,
Each tendril, memory entwined.
A silent, sorrowful recall,
Of what we left...
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