In the stillness of the night, they come alive,
Whispers of shadows, in moonlight they thrive.
Echoes of memories, in the darkness they weave,
Tales of the past, in which we still believe.

Through the silent halls, they softly tread,
Ghostly figures, from a time long dead.
Their presence felt, though unseen they remain,
Bringing with them, an ancient pain.

The walls remember, the secrets they hide,
Stories of love, and those who have died.
Each room a stage, for the spectral play,
Ghosts of the past, forever stay.

In the quiet hours, when the world is still,
Listen closely, if you will.
For in the shadows, they whisper and sigh,
The ghosts of the past, never truly die.