A pall of dread hangs heavy in the air,
The ramparts creak, a fortress in despair.
The churchyard stirs, where weathered tombstones weep,
Disturbed from rest, forgotten spirits creep.

From moonlit graves, a spectral host ascends,
Their tattered forms where mist and starlight blend.
Ancient warriors, their eyes like dying coals,
Bound by silent oaths to guard these hallowed knolls.

A mournful chorus whispers through the gloom,
The wind carries their song, a prelude to their doom.
Each spectral cry, a plea from bygone years,
Echoes of battles lost, of triumphs and of fears.

The living huddle, fear gnawing at their core,
Sensing unseen presences, the spirits at their door.
Lanterns cast long shadows, monstrous and grotesque,
As if the very darkness takes a haunting, twisted breath.

The drums of war, a heartbeat in the night,
Summon forth the legions, bathed in blood-red light.
A tide of steel and fury surging near,
Each footstep shakes the ground, amplifying the fear.

The spectral ranks stand resolute and brave,
Their spectral weapons raised, a challenge from the grave.
"This soil we hold," their chilling voices cry,
"Where honor sleeps, beneath a mournful sky."

The first wave crashes, a tempest of the damned,
Swords shatter against forms no mortal hand could brand.
The clash of ages rings out in the night,
Ancient spirits waging their eternal fight.

Each ghostly blow flickers with ethereal light,
A spectral dance of memory burning bright.
Yet living steel cuts deep, and spirits wane,
Their forms dissolve like mist upon a pane.

Whispers on the wind, a fading, haunting sigh,
The fallen find their rest where moonbeams lie.
And as the battle rages, fierce and bold,
A tale of sacrifice forever will be told.

With dawn's first light, the crimson field lies bare,
The ghostly chorus vanished into the air.
Their echoes linger, intertwined with pain,
Where heroes fought, and spirits rose again.