High upon the hill it lies,
Forlorn in darkened dour,
Praised by many, known by few,
The Castle Glora's Tower.

Hoisted high upon the ridge,
The shining beacon's hope,
Left to rot in the abyss,
The Tower's mithered scope.

Penned upon the rotten pages,
The cries, the screams, the wails,
Bereft deep in the antique annals,
That of which, all now hail.

Stones that hold their secrets,
Like a note contained by twine,
Still held to its defiled name,
Stands Glora's Tower, divine.