Where Portraits Stare from Banquet Halls

Where portraits stare from banquet halls,

And dusk drips down the gilded walls,

The hush is deep, the air is still,

Yet time moves on, against its will.

The mirrors hold a softened gleam,

As if they cradle some old dream.

The chandeliers, with crystals bowed,

Recall a waltz, no longer loud.

No voices now, no clinking glass,

Just echoes in the painted mass.

Their eyes, immortal, calm and wide,

Survey the rooms they once defied.

And something stirs beneath the gold—A story left,

a secret told—That beauty lingers, even falls

Where portraits stare from banquet halls.