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The moon, pale archivist of night,

Forgets the names it used to keep—

The sighs of tides, the ash of flame,

The prayers mouthed softly in their sleep.

It casts its light on graves long sealed,

Yet cannot trace the face once known.

Its silence deepens every year,

A crown of ice, a heart of stone.

What echoes linger, faint and small,

Are ghosts the moon cannot recall.