As evening falls over a place of worship, at the heart of Elysium, a satyr tramples through the ruins of a sacred place in the heart of Elysium. A sacred book is discovered under the moonlight by a cloaked visitor. Between its ragged pages contain the secrets of the scribe. That faun which wrote this text dwells in the forest and peers out at its edges by the crumbling Ruins of Ballantine. With new practices it is possible to bring ancient forms of storytelling to life.
When I first heard of the ‘Ruins Of The Ballatine’,
I felt a calling that it must be mine.
The one who wants what others have,
Will chase the utterance of Queen Mab,
And rage against the carnage of man.
The ruins crumble beneath where I stand,
Could the moon send shudders through the soul of man?
The brass shields that wedge within adjacent pillars,
Koi fish swarm beneath weeping willows,
Warping shadows upon the hill.
Who is that traveler in the dark,
And what do we really know of him?
A field of pigs writhe,
Each one covered in mud,
Gold gloves hang by his side,
The visitor places his hands upon a sacred book contained therein,
The Ruins Of Ballatine.
Beneath its pillar, a childish faun,
Runs through the rocks, though they’re crumbling and worn,
The ballad’s pages torn,
Nature’s only son,
Whispers from the messengers where they run,
What one man says is in writing where it’s read,
The secrets of the scribe,
The blood of life, flows through the ruins of Ballatine,
The blunt swords scrape the stones sounding hellish chords,
The plentiful ruinous notes,
This ballad is our only hope,
Though seeing through the eyes of poison,
The pages burn up before they’re read,
And never escape the endless dread,
Scrolled in ink by a man possessed,
Drunk on the power of Poseidon,
His trident raised to the heavens above his head,
Vines around the ruins of Ballatine,
The shadows shrouded as the moon corrodes into sand,
Whispers in the corridors
Daggers in the voice,
Scorpions on the floor,
That visitor didn't learn the laws,
And crushed insects into the beds of sacred heirlooms,
Appear again in a beckoning twilight,
Beneath the ruins of Ballatine,
Beetles rattles through the cracks,
With every waking moment I had wondered what your pages spelt,
And now I hold it in my hands and hope,
I speak those words and to know the language of the heralds,
The moon washed over the words etched,
Can there be gold amongst the dust,
Gems in the rough,
Daylight after the flood,
Are we not enough?
The follies of love,
The pig and the trough,
The roses that corrupt,
I am that rogue that you once loved.