the hallow bell

The Hollow Bell

In a tower high, where shadows loom,
There hangs a bell of ancient doom,
Its voice is silent, still as stone,
Yet whispers chills through wind alone.

No hand will touch its tarnished frame,
For bound within, a cursed name—
A name that once was full of life,
Now lost to time’s relentless strife.

Beneath the moon’s pale, dying light,
It waits to toll the final night.
The air grows heavy with unseen dread,
As though the earth itself were dead.

Once, it rang with joyous sound,
Now only silence does it bound.
For when the hollow bell doth toll,
It calls the last and lonely soul.

The raven, perched on broken spire,
Awaits the hour of cold desire.
It knows the song the bell shall sing—
A mournful cry, death’s hollow ring.

And in the village, far below,
They fear the sound they do not know.
For legends speak of endless rest,
When souls are summoned to the west.

The wind shall howl, the night shall fall,
The bell shall toll for one, for all.
And when its chime pierces the dark,
The world shall bear its final mark.

So sleep, if sleep you can this night,
For soon the bell will end all light.
And in its tone, the dead shall rise,
To greet the stars with empty eyes.