
Snow drapes the halls where shadows breathe,
Footsteps linger—yet none leave.
The nursery hums a lullaby,
Soft voices lost in frozen skies.
Broken toys lie still and blind,
A cradle sways with none inside.
Ghostly hands trace words in dust,
A tale of sorrow, cold and hushed.
Through shattered glass and dust-cloaked air,
A quiet sorrow lingers there.
Their names are carved in brittle stone,
Yet still, they whisper—still, they moan.
Frozen whispers, calling, sighing,
Faint and hollow, never dying.
Trapped in ice, in time forsaken,
Ghosts of children long mistaken.
Distant laughter, frail and thin,
A mother’s voice, lost in the wind.
Dolls with vacant, staring eyes,
Sing songs of grief beneath the ice.
The attic door is left ajar,
A cradle sways beneath the stars.
Where frost-kissed walls still cradle pain,
They whisper, weep, yet call no name.
Through rusted locks and doors unbarred,
The past remains—it’s never far.
A tragedy too cold to fade,
Their frozen dreams still haunt the gray.
Frozen whispers, calling, sighing,
Faint and hollow, never dying.
Trapped in ice, in time forsaken,
Ghosts of children long mistaken.
The walls remember every scream,
Each silent prayer, each broken dream.
Tiny hands pressed to the glass,
Pale reflections that will never pass.
Their lullabies dissolve in air,
Soft cries entombed in deep despair.
No one weeps, no prayers remain,
Just hollow names in biting rain.
Frozen whispers, voices weeping,
Silent screams where snow is sleeping.
Their lullabies fade into mist,
But in the dark, they still exist.
Beneath the ice, they softly call,
A shadow's touch, a child's fall.
No warmth remains, no breath to find,
Only echoes, lost in time.
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