The road is long, the night is deep,
the beasts are howlin’, the seraphs sleep.
The wind is whistlin’, a mournful tune,
beneath the pale and distant moon.
The lonely traveller, weary and worn,
pursues a path that’s never been born.

The stars ignite, a diamond dust,
but shadows linger, cold and just.
The river flows, a silver thread,
where dreams and memories lie dead.
The owl calls out, a mournful sound,
on this forsaken, haunted ground.

The fire flickers, low and dim,
a flicker of hope, a flickering hymn.
The guitar strums, a lonely plea,
for solace in this misery.
But the echoes fade, and the silence grows,
as the weary soul finds no repose.

The dawn approaches, a pale gray light,
but the darkness lingers, holding tight.
The road unwinds, an endless maze,
in this twilight of forgotten days.
And the traveller walks, with weary tread,
towards a future, yet unsaid.