In the quiet of the moonlit hour,
Where shadows dance with eerie grace,
The devil whispers secrets sour,
In the hidden corners of this place.
His voice, a silken thread of fire,
Weaves tales of longing and desire,
Promises of what hearts conspire,
Yet bound by chains that never tire.
The night is deep, the stars are cold,
As whispers turn to haunting song,
A melody both new and old,
Where right and wrong no longer belong.
Yet as the dawn begins to break,
The devil fades into the mist,
Leaving behind the hearts that ache,
In shadows where his whispers persist.