In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A forest stands, in endless gray.
The trees of Hell, they loom and sway,
Their branches grasping, like skeletal hands in prayer.

Their trunks are thick, their bark is rough,
Their leaves are black, and seem to clutch,
The very air, with malevolent glee,
Exuding evil, in every twisted spree.

The wind it howls, through branches bare,
A mournful sigh, that's beyond compare,
The...