poeTRY (Volume 2)

The Fisher King's Lament (Gadralnuere)

The Fisher King's Lament

The land's grown dark and desolate,

wounded, glum and dry.

It bleeds what good is left for now

and all upon it die.

Within its capitol there stands

a crippled throne of misery

and on that throne sit I.

My thoughts each day are clouded

at the sin which cost my grace,

reminded daily of my crime

by oozing wounds of punishment

reflected on my face.

All hope seems gone,

and prayers ignored

to save this ravaged land,

as daily all that once was good

is shed from here

and disappears,

like sea-shells in the sand.

One day, they say,

a soul will come,

a spirit pure as rain,

to find that grace

lost in disgrace

and make us whole again.

Now all that I can do is wait

enduring that cruel stroke,

delivered by good Balin's spear,

deserved by me,

this misery

that even brave men fear.

I doubt that I'll be well once more,

for many good men tried.

They come to heal

this ruined king

and in the trying, died.

I spend my time upon this stream.

I fish to ease my pain,

as daily,

darkness fills the skies

with torment's grim refrain.

Oh take me now,

my Lord, my King,

forgive this poor soul's stain.

Please save this land

with your great hand

and make it whole again.