Ballad of the Blighted Harvest

The Islander's Lament

Ballad of the Blighted Harvest

_A traditional lament, Solomon Island oral tradition._

The nets are empty, the tide runs black,

No silver gleam from the ocean's track.

The corn stands withered, a sickly hue,

Beneath a sky of bruised and broken blue.

Oh, the blight, the blight, that crawls from the deep,

Stealing our bounty, while innocents sleep.

The children whisper of shadows that creep,

Where the old lighthouse weeps, and the secrets keep.

Their laughter falters, their eyes grow dull,

As the ooze from the earth begins to pull.

Oh, the blight, the blight, with a taste of despair,

A heavy fog that hangs in the air.

The fields once vibrant, now turn to ash,

The gentle breeze, a mournful crash.

The fisherman's song, a sorrowful plea,

For the things we've lost, that will never be.

Oh, the blight, the blight, a serpent unseen,

Corrupting the pure, and turning it mean.

No doctor's potion, no preacher's prayer,

Can lift the burden, the weight we bear.

We watch our world fade, bit by slow bit,

To the hungry silence, where shadows sit.

Oh, the blight, the blight, its victory won,

Beneath the gaze of a setting sun.