They Write No More Ballads

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(I was recently looking in some old notebooks for blank paper to write on, and found a bunch of old poems I wrote, maybe 20-25 years ago. I believe that this poem was originally meant to go with a story I haven’t gotten around to writing yet. I don’t remember precisely. But I do remember writing this poem, and the eerie minor tune I wrote it to. I reworked it somewhat to post it here.  Yes, I’m the kind of person who keeps a half-filled notebook around for 20 years, hoping someday I’ll finish filling it. Doesn’t stop me from buying new ones, though. Pathetic.)

They write no more ballads,
They sing no more songs.
They have no more hope,
Fear drives them along.
No more do light
In the darkness they see.
And now they must fight,
Must fight to be free.

The dark knight now reigneth
O’er all the lands.
From mountain’s cold meadows
To ocean’s bright sands.
The wheat fields lie barren,
The corn fields lie rot.
For no one is left
Of the battle they fought.

The cities are silent.
The towns all in dread.
There are no more feasts,
No more loaves of bread.
The roads are all empty,
The shelves are all bare.
The nation is hungry,
But who’s left to care?

Where is the joy?
Where is the hope?
Where is the faith
They need to cope?
Where can they find
The glory of life?
Where can they find
Peace from the strife?

Look! There is rising
A mist from the land.
It glides from the hills,
It flows from the sands.
A cool wind is blowing,
Bringing peace from the sea.
An army is rising
To fight for the free.

The right king is coming,
Though the time may seem late.
Hold on to the promise.
Not much longer to wait.
The king needs the land,
As the land needs the king.
And when he returns,
The whole land will sing.

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