The Lament of the Cursed Bard Beneath the Sorrowful Star
Where war’s harsh thunder still resounds and hearts are bitter-cold,
There stood a youth, a poet bound by Fate’s unyielding hand,
A cursed soul amidst the grief of a ravaged, ruined land.
On this forsaken, sodden stage where battle scars remain,
The cursed poet donned his grief like robes of endless pain;
Each droplet spoke in whispered hymns of loss and deep regret,
For in his breast, a mournful fire burned secrets of his debt.
Amidst the gloom of troubled night, beneath a star’s faint gleam,
He waited for his tender love – an echo of a dream;
Yet fate, in cruel and artful guise, had sealed their final part,
For war had claimed the fragile peace that dwelt within his heart.
“O gentle love,” he softly cried in tones of waning hope,
“Thou art the light amid my dark, the reason I still cope.
In our final breath ‘neath mournful skies, let sorrow mark this day,
For every tear and every sigh doth bid our past decay.”
He spoke of fields where poppies bloomed, in summers long since fled,
Of golden light that kissed the land before the storm of dread,
When drums of war began their call and spectres danced on high,
And dreams dissolved like dew at dawn ‘neath an abandoned sky.
The rain, like mournful seraphs weeping o’er a broken land,
Reflected all the sufferings of souls ensnared by Fate’s cruel hand.
Upon the ancient, creaking bridge, whose stones bore histories vast,
The poet wept for loves once lost and for a youth too soon surpassed.
“Behold, the star that pierces gloom, a solitary fire,
A trembling beacon in the night that mirrors our desire.
Yet not for love alone it burns, but for each falling tear,
For in its light, our true farewell is etched, both far and near.”
Thus spoke our cursed and wistful poet, whose words like aching bells
Recalled the haunting strains of war and all its woeful spells.
His verses, wrought in melancholic tones, did weave a tapestry
Of memory, of hope, of bitter strife interlaced with misery.
The land around him, steeped in grief, did murmur in the rain,
As if the very earth itself lamented every slain
And every soul, now torn asunder by the ruthless hand of war,
Could merge to form the sorrowed hymn that echoed evermore.
Yet in that vale of discontent, his heart still dared to pine,
For one last glance, one final word, before the fates entwine;
A love, as fleeting as a sigh, that once had graced his arm,
Now faded into memory, as tender as a charm.
Beside him stood a figure, cloaked in twilight’s somber hue,
Her eyes like pools of quiet pain, her spirit strong—and true;
“Dear bard,” she softly whispered low, “the hour draws nigh our part—
My journey calls me from this realm, though you be left with heart.”
And as the tempest roared its cry, a mournful requiem sweet,
They found themselves entwined in hope, in grief’s embrace to meet.
The cursed poet, words as weapons, forged a final, fated verse,
A ballad of adieu and loss, of destiny so harsh and terse.
“My dearest love, in fate’s cruel embrace, we taste the bitter wine
Of sorrow, loss, and parting ways—an end by grand design.
Yet know that in each drop of rain, in every gust of gale,
Your memory shall linger on; our love shall never pale.”
So they embraced amidst the storm, a tender, fleeting clasp,
As time itself seemed to defer, reluctant in its grasp;
Beneath a star—a lone beacon—a parting kiss was sealed,
A promise etched in tear and blood that fate could not repeal.
No herald came to sound the knell, nor trumpet of despair;
The silent, weeping heavens bore witness to their prayer—
A prayer for peace, for love, for life, though caught within war’s bind,
A final hope enshrined in verse, for hearts that fate confined.
The cursed poet, cloaked in rue, then turned his tear-streaked gaze
To that celestial wanderer, whose shimmer cut the haze;
“Farewell, sweet love! My soul doth weep at this destined end,
Yet in our parting, let thy light forever onward send.”
With words that danced like shimmering ghosts upon the sodden air,
He spoke of lands where sorrow reigned and hope seemed ever rare;
His verses, carved on time’s own face, proclaimed a truth so stark
That war’s cruel hand may steal our lives, yet cannot dim love’s spark.
But fate, unyielding in its course, had drawn the final line,
A tragic twist of destiny that none could ever outshine;
For as the rain bestowed its tears, a cry arose—so keen—
A herald of the ultimate cost, too harsh, too grim, too mean.
A cannon’s roar on distant grounds did rend the silent night,
And in that burst of mortal dread, the doomed met fateful plight;
The bridge itself, a witness to each woeful and desperate cry,
Shuddered ‘neath the weight of sorrow, ‘neath the watchful, weeping sky.
The cursed poet, still entwined in love’s ephemeral glow,
Felt in his very bosom the chill of death’s impending blow.
His pulse, once set ablaze by hope, now faltered in despair,
For time was naught but merciless, and none but grief could spare.
“Alas!” he cried, his voice a dirge along the rain-soaked stone,
“My heart doth break at every beat, each echo now my own.
To live within a war-torn world is but to dance with fate,
Where every joy is crippled by the hand of cruel debate.”
In that last, ephemeral moment, beneath the lone star’s gaze,
He felt his strength recede like dusk, consumed by sorrow’s blaze;
And as his life’s dim ember flickered in the storm’s wild hand,
He whispered one last sonnet to his love, so pure and grand.
“My spirit, like the fragile leaf when autumn winds do call,
Shall drift upon the streams of time where tears and memories fall;
Yet know, my dearest, though I fade, as shadows claim my light,
Our love shall bloom in every verse that haunts the endless night.”
Then, in the cold and bitter rain, as echoes filled the air,
The cursed poet yielded to the dark, despairing snare;
His eyes, once bright with fervent dreams, now closed in solemn peace,
A final, tragic sacrifice upon the bridge where hope did cease.
The night grew deep with silence then, as rain and grief conspired
To etch the tale of lost desire and love forever mired;
The lone star, overhead and pale, beheld the scene below,
A testament to life’s misfortunes and all that we must forego.
In whispers soft, the ancient stones recounted every deed
Of valor, pain, and boundless love that sprang from mortal need;
They sang of courage, of lament, of hearts in battle torn,
And of a cursed poet’s legacy, through war and fury born.
Across that somber, spectral span, the bridge retained the lore
Of farewells made beneath the rain, of promises no more;
A silent monument to souls who braved the tempest’s might,
Who sought in love a healing balm amid the endless night.
Now, far beyond the veil of death, where sorrow meets the dawn,
The memory of that tragic love shall linger, never gone;
A tale wherein our wounded hearts, though scarred by war’s cruel hand,
May yet discover beauty in the ruins of a broken land.
Oh, mournful song of love and loss, of bidding sweet adieu,
Thy verses live in every sigh that drifts ‘neath skies of blue;
For though our time on mortal soil is brief and laden still
With woes that seem to plague the soul like winter’s bitter chill,
The legacy of heartfelt words and passion true shall rise
Beyond the realms of endless night and fate’s unyielding ties.
So heed this mournful tale, dear hearts, and let its echo ring
Across the chasms of our lives, where sorrow dares to sing.
Thus stands the final epitaph upon that rain-drenched span,
A chronicle of war and love immortalized by man;
The cursed poet, now a memory in every tear that falls,
Becomes the voice by which we mourn within these ancient halls.
For in his last, transcendent breath, a truth was thus declared:
No war, however bleak its might, can life’s true love impair.
Yet destiny, in cruel decree, with sorrow’s ink did write
That every ardent kiss and dream must yield to endless night.
Now, with the star as silent witness to this tragic end,
We lay to rest the poet’s soul, his words a timeless friend;
And in the rain’s immortal hymn, his heart shall e’er remain
A beacon in the darkness, a love beyond all pain.
