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.

Ballad of the Sunken Bells

The Deep's Old Song

(Verse 1)

The gulls cry sharp o'er Kingsmouth town, the nets are cast anew,
Old Man Hemlock’s boat goes out, as all the fisherfolk do.
He checked his phone for weather bright, a blue sky overhead,
But swore he heard a distant chime, from ocean's salty bed.
Oh, the deep, the deep, it keeps its own,
And silence breaks with a watery moan.

(Verse 2)

The morning mist, it hung so thick, you couldn't see your hand,
Old Hemlock felt a sudden pull, not fish upon the sand.
A heavy chain, adorned with rust, came up from waters cold,
And on its links, a barnacled bell, with stories left untold.
Oh, the bells, the bells, they ring so deep,
While secrets of the sunken sleep.

(Verse 3)

He brought it back to shore with haste, the townsfolk gathered 'round,
That bell, it wasn't made of brass, nor gave a joyful sound.
It pulsed with light, a sickly green, then vanished in the air,
And in its place, a chill wind blew, a shadow of despair.
Now every morn, at break of day, the folk hear distant chimes,
And check their phones for messages, from forgotten, watery times.
Oh, the chimes, the chimes, they call below,
To where the currents ebb and flow.

Collected from a recording device salvaged from a derelict shanty on Solomon Island, near the docks of Kingsmouth. Identified as a local folk song, circa 2024.