The tower stands where storm winds scream
Its stones are drenched in dusk & dream
And ivy bleeds along the wall
She waits where shadows drown the gleam

Her veil, once white, lies still, forlorn
A bridal ghost the years have worn
She strokes the chair he used to grace
His scent remains, though he is gone

The mirror sighs with breath not hers
Its glass alive with spectral blurs
She sees him there, a flickering wraith
His gaze a wound that never cures

By candle’s hush, she softly calls
While rain claws down the crumbling halls
He answers not, but lingers near
A shape that moves when silence falls

And still the crimson ivy grows
Entwines the stones in scarlet throes
As if the tower’s heart still bleeds
For love the grave refused to close