Cry of the Banshee

In the misty moors, where the shadows play,

A voice calls out before break of day.

A wailing sound, a mournful cry,

A harbinger beneath the sky.

Her hair is pale as the rising moon,

Her eyes like storms that foretell doom.

She roams the night, unseen, untamed,

Whispering softly the names of the claimed.

Oh, the banshee weeps for the souls to go,

Her song of sorrow, soft and low.

A haunting cry, a chilling breath,

The spectral hymn of coming death.

They say she lingers near the stream,

Her keening voice a waking dream.

To hear her song is to know despair,

For death’s cold hand is waiting there.

A family’s blood, her sacred vow,

To guide their spirits, then and now.

Her grief eternal, her heart confined,

To the ones she’s bound, she’s resigned.

Oh, the banshee weeps for the souls to go,

Her song of sorrow, soft and low.

A haunting cry, a chilling breath,

The spectral hymn of coming death.

Is she a curse or a guardian fair?

A warning sent through the midnight air?

A soul in torment, a ghostly guide,

Forever caught in the tide.

Her tears fall like silver rain,

Each drop a symbol of mortal pain.

She sings not to harm, but to mourn,

A heart once human, now forlorn.

Oh, the banshee weeps for the souls to go,

Her song of sorrow, soft and low.

A haunting cry, a chilling breath,

The spectral hymn of coming death.

So heed the wind when it starts to moan,

For the banshee’s voice chills to the bone.

Her cry foretells the journey’s end,

A lonely specter, a timeless friend.