In the black night’s shrouded core,
Laughter ended, sighs no more.

A horse’s skull with teeth worn thin,
Hides a secret deep within.

From a hollow once a tooth,
Sprouts a tree of divine truth.

Born of bone and burnt despair,
A spectral dirge hangs in air.

Each infant, like a twisted root,
With face as dark as sunless soot.

Their silence not of peace, but dread,
A mute lament for words of dead.

In its depths, two horrors meet,
A skull-worn path, a child’s defeat.