Prophecy of Taliesin
Listen! See now an apple, bright and full of colour,
Suspended in a sea of stars,
Skin green as forests deep,
A land stretching farther than your eye.
From ripe surface, this apple is fair and sweet,
Yet ‘neath this bright flesh,
In a realm ‘tween living and the dead,
Stirs the great wyrm gnawing at its core.
You see, fair features belie the deep rot within this radiant orb,
From feasting silent in its secret cell,
It spreads forth through hidden veins,
The earth trembling in its sinuous wake.
His warring passions roused ever by his vain conceits,
Man is blind to his coming doom,
Even as the heavens darken,
The thund’rous presage remains unheard.
‘Ere the last gate closes and the fair retreat,
The wise make themselves fools,
Then reaches the hand of death,
Sickness swelling in its shadow.
Parents can n’er bury a child before in turn shall die,
They beg mercy of the fates,
Yet their gods are silent,
Impotent against this storm.
Bound now in eternity to cold, uncaring stars.
Yoked to that iron wheel,
The great song is ending,
Forever into silence as the last note fades.
Through fair lands and laughing halls it sweeps,
A breath of death, unseen yet felt,
Plucking the chords of life from countless throats,
And with its hand, it smothers magic's light.
The stones of old, silent sentinels of the land,
Hold secrets carved by hands long turned to dust.
Beneath their weathered forms, the pulse yet beats,
Echoing chants of warding, shelter, and life.
The standing stones stand as keys to the lost,
To those who seek them with wisdom's sight.
Yet beware the path, for it winds through mist,
Guarded by riddles sharp as a dragon’s fang.
Deep in the wild woods where shadows breathe,
Where roots twist like runes of the earth's desire,
A power ancient as the stars yet stirs.
A secret craft, a lore of leaf and branch,
In cauldrons dark, the hope of life is brewed,
As beasts howl oaths to the moonlit boughs.
But tread lightly, for the woods are watchful,
And they claim both the pure and the profane.
Yet lo, not all who seek such secrets mean to share.
A cabal of shadowed hearts, whose eyes burn greed,
Rise from the depths of knowledge long profaned.
By blood and bane they chart the hidden ways,
And with foul rites, they twist the land to serve.
They covet the stones, the woods, the craft,
To claim shelter from the plague they wrought.
Beware their steps, and their whispers in the dark.
Now see the apple, once bright, now bruised and pale,
Its inner light remains, though feeble and faint.
Yet haste is needed, for the stars grow cold,
The wheel turning faster as the song unwinds.
A cruel truth takes root like thorns in the heart:
Not all who seek shelter shall find its embrace.
A handful only, chosen by fate or will,
Shall pass through the narrow gate unscathed.
Upon this bitter threshold stand two figures,
Two bound by threads of fate and woe.
One, a keeper of secrets, with eyes like flame,
The other, bearing the burden of ancient power.
The fate of the world lies not in battles fought,
But in whispered words and the weight of choice.
Only one may hold the power to write,
The solemn ledger where life and death are weighed.
Listen! See now an apple, bright and full of colour,
Suspended in a sea of stars,
Skin green as forests deep,
A land stretching farther than your eye.
From ripe surface, this apple is fair and sweet,
Yet ‘neath this bright flesh,
In a realm ‘tween living and the dead,
Stirs the great wyrm gnawing at its core.
You see, fair features belie the deep rot within this radiant orb,
From feasting silent in its secret cell,
It spreads forth through hidden veins,
The earth trembling in its sinuous wake.
His warring passions roused ever by his vain conceits,
Man is blind to his coming doom,
Even as the heavens darken,
The thund’rous presage remains unheard.
‘Ere the last gate closes and the fair retreat,
The wise make themselves fools,
Then reaches the hand of death,
Sickness swelling in its shadow.
Parents can n’er bury a child before in turn shall die,
They beg mercy of the fates,
Yet their gods are silent,
Impotent against this storm.
Bound now in eternity to cold, uncaring stars.
Yoked to that iron wheel,
The great song is ending,
Forever into silence as the last note fades.
Through fair lands and laughing halls it sweeps,
A breath of death, unseen yet felt,
Plucking the chords of life from countless throats,
And with its hand, it smothers magic's light.
The stones of old, silent sentinels of the land,
Hold secrets carved by hands long turned to dust.
Beneath their weathered forms, the pulse yet beats,
Echoing chants of warding, shelter, and life.
The standing stones stand as keys to the lost,
To those who seek them with wisdom's sight.
Yet beware the path, for it winds through mist,
Guarded by riddles sharp as a dragon’s fang.
Deep in the wild woods where shadows breathe,
Where roots twist like runes of the earth's desire,
A power ancient as the stars yet stirs.
A secret craft, a lore of leaf and branch,
In cauldrons dark, the hope of life is brewed,
As beasts howl oaths to the moonlit boughs.
But tread lightly, for the woods are watchful,
And they claim both the pure and the profane.
Yet lo, not all who seek such secrets mean to share.
A cabal of shadowed hearts, whose eyes burn greed,
Rise from the depths of knowledge long profaned.
By blood and bane they chart the hidden ways,
And with foul rites, they twist the land to serve.
They covet the stones, the woods, the craft,
To claim shelter from the plague they wrought.
Beware their steps, and their whispers in the dark.
Now see the apple, once bright, now bruised and pale,
Its inner light remains, though feeble and faint.
Yet haste is needed, for the stars grow cold,
The wheel turning faster as the song unwinds.
A cruel truth takes root like thorns in the heart:
Not all who seek shelter shall find its embrace.
A handful only, chosen by fate or will,
Shall pass through the narrow gate unscathed.
Upon this bitter threshold stand two figures,
Two bound by threads of fate and woe.
One, a keeper of secrets, with eyes like flame,
The other, bearing the burden of ancient power.
The fate of the world lies not in battles fought,
But in whispered words and the weight of choice.
Only one may hold the power to write,
The solemn ledger where life and death are weighed.