The Pale Hours

A sense of movement in silent rooms
Dust was raised in ascending spirals
Papers rustled in empty grates
The wind whistles through rotting frames

A sense of movement in silent rooms
It was the wind that made the trees move
Creating faint shadows that fell throught the cracks
Their shades drifting across the old mirror

For she comes to me still
In the lost time
Between sleep and wake
In the pale hours

A sense of movement in the silent rooms
The world reflected in the mirror, subtly different
Lonely shape moving within its depths
Finding no companion in the old house

It was the wind
Just the wind

A sense of movement in the silent rooms
It was the wind that carried these images
Of unknown past, a pale forgotten memory
Through the glass, into another reality

It was the wind
Just the wind