The lyrics below are a draft of a ballad in my novel in progress (working title, “The Cindering,”…although I’m less in love with that title now that the story has further developed. Some principle characters and a locations are provided in the text, as well as a propellant for the plot (no, it’s not a dragon…). The italicized line is a bridge between the two halves of the ballad. At some point, this will be set to music…that would be a new challenge!
The picture – forgive me for it’s rudimentary style – is something I envision being found in an ancient building, a gathering place of those who foretold the coming calamity that would forever change the world in which the story takes place. Lots of imagery that will come to life in the book.
It was fun to write and will find it’s place (in some form) in the novel. Enjoy!
What did you do, oh cub of a king,
When Sochered was singed by Pyr’s vicious tongue?
When mothers hid children in darkness and stone,
And farmers’ backs burned in the fields all alone?
What did you do when our echoes despaired,
When their listeners begged you to give ear to air?
What did you do when cries ripped through the hills,
when all drew their breath for the battle of wills?
Did you cringe in despair in the dark of the Cist,
Or don a disguise and dissolve in the mist?
Did you burst forth in madness to ashen decay,
While the demon devoured its ill-favored prey?
Oh, King! Dear Bellaic! Your courage held fast!
You commanded your lords to join at the last.
“Tell your people to…”
“Huddle in stone or a cave in the Biter!
Best devoured by its teeth than a tongue, licked with fire.”
Terror struck soundly, with scorching and steam.
Joy turned to mist and the vale filled with screams.
Th’inferno turned sinews and skin o’er to cinder,
A powdery dream coating housetops like winter.
Some hid in quickstone, a fortuitous ark,
While others tucked, breathless, in weaver tree bark.
And when they emerged, more than grief stung their eyes,
Their own echoed warning recalled promised cries.
“The air tastes of ash and of pain,” Galla cried.
“Hear the wails,” Jovian pled, “you cannot turn the tide.”
“A body of fire will sear us in stone,
“The foothills will blacken with ruin and bone.”
Oh, King Bellaic, your fight was not fair,
For falsehood and fire were imminent snares.
So now, here we stand with hope in our hand,
As our wound is reopened time and again.
a tilting of air 