They built the Wall to hold the cold—

A crownless line of men grown old

With broken swords and eyes like ash

They stand where all the lost will pass

We are the last to feel the storm

A thousand nights without the morn

With oath-bound hands, we guard the gate

Though none return, we do not break

Beneath the snow, the silence grows

It sings of things no fire knows

I’ve watched the dark behind the trees

Heard whispers crawl across the freeze

The dead don’t march with sound or flame

They walk in shadow, without name

(No lyrics — cello melody and atmospheric textures only)

So write this tale in stone and wind:

The fire dies, the night begins

If morning comes, we’ll never see—

We are the watchers. Let it be.

(No lyrics — cello fades, raven cry, and wind dies out)