Whispers of Celeste

In the year of shadows, 1928,
When the skies wept beneath Dutch reign,
There stood a girl named Celeste,
Bound by fate, wrapped in pain.
Her dress was white, but not her soul,
In the gardens, she used to stroll,
Until the winds of war grew near,
And whispered death upon her ear.
Beneath the palm trees, twisted and high,
Her laughter echoed, then said goodbye,

For the hands of time ceased to turn,
And in her house, the candles burned.
The night she fell, the moon stood still,
The air grew cold, and sharp with chill.
Her body swayed like reeds in stream,
Taken too soon, lost to a dream.
But Celeste remains, a shadowed ghost,
A child in white, a silent host,
In the halls where her footsteps fade,
A life undone, in history’s shade.
The house still stands, old and decayed,
Where spirits of the past have strayed.
And if you listen, you might just hear,

Her soft voice singing, drawing near.
For Celeste was never laid to rest,
In that house of sorrow, she is a guest.
A ghostly child, a haunting sight,
Forever bound to endless night.

© poembyselly