A tremor weaves through hollow veins,
A whisper fused in buried chains.
Through clefts of shade and marrowed hush,
A specter coils in earthen brush.

No torch ignites the cavern’s throat,
Yet something stirs beneath the mote.
A buried wane, a murmured trace,
A sorrow bound in granite lace.

What voice first shaped this tomb in clay?
What dirge still clings in mute decay?
For even rock, though deaf and blind,
Still bears the scars of years behind.

And though the dust may veil the sound,
Some whispers curl beneath the ground.
For what was sung in tethered glow
Still trembles soft in depths below.