Oh, the mists rise pale when the midnight nears, Where the shadowed spires appear. A bridge of air, a stair of light, That leads the bold into the night. Their footsteps fall on nothing sure, Each step a ghost, each vista pure. The city waits with silver eyes, “Ascend, ascend—yet mind the lies!” Chorus: The stars are cold, the moon is thin, We walk the veil of might-have-been. Oh, drink to those who scale the gloom, For the sky may yet become their tomb. A voice drifts soft from towers high, A tale of power, of love, of why. Each shadow cast recalls the dead, Each echo speaks of paths unsaid. Beneath pale arches, visions gleam, Of what was lost or might have been. But touch them not, nor call them friend, For their truth will twist you in the end. Chorus: The stars are cold, the moon is thin, We walk the veil of might-have-been. Oh, drink to those who scale the gloom, For the sky may yet become their tomb. Through halls of glass and streets of mist, The past returns in every twist. Yet those who seek to hold it tight, Shall never leave that haunted height. At dawn, the city fades to air, Its truths dissolve, as none were there. And all who climbed must pay the cost— What they have seen, or what they’ve lost. Final Chorus: The stars deceived, the moon withdrew, The ghosts have vanished with the dew. So sing for those who braved the gloom, For the sky may yet become their tomb.
