Beneath the pale and waning moon,
A chilling hymn begins its tune.
The cemetery stirs at night,
As shadows shift in ghostly light.
The gravestones hum, a mournful song,
A dirge for those who’ve slept too long.
From crypts arise a spectral band,
Their voices echo through the land.
The choirmaster, gaunt and grim,
Conducts with gestures dark and dim.
His baton, carved of ancient bone,
Draws whispers from the cobblestones.
The air grows thick, a deathly breeze,
That rustles through the hollowed trees.
Each note they sing, a spell they cast,
To summon horrors of the past.
Their hymn calls forth the bound and chained,
The restless souls forever pained.
From graves they rise, a ghostly choir,
Eyes aglow with spectral fire.
Their harmony, both sweet and dire,
Ignites the moon with crimson fire.
The living feel their hearts turn cold,
As secrets long forgot unfold.
“Come join us now,” the choir implores,
“Our music opens unseen doors.
A world awaits beyond the veil,
Where echoes of the damned prevail.”
But should you watch or try to hear,
Their melody will draw you near.
And once you’ve crossed the cemetery gate,
Your name is etched among their fate.
So heed the warning, stay away,
When moonlight turns the graves to gray.
For if the Cemetery Choir calls,
You’ll vanish ‘neath their shadowed halls.