Old English Poem

April comes, but no flowers bloom, Only dust upon the winds resume. In the waste land, the earth lies bare, A silent hymn fills the arid air. Beneath the ashen skies, they tread, Shadows of the living, dreams long dead. The rivers dried, their beds now stone, A forgotten realm where seeds aren't sown. The sun hangs low, a weary eye, Its golden gaze too faint to try. The wind is sharp, it cuts the skin, A whispering ghost of what has been. The city crumbles, its towers lean, Brick and bone in shades obscene. The streets once lively, now a maze, A labyrinth of forgotten days. "Who will come?" a voice does cry, "To bring the rain, to heal the sky?" A figure stirs, cloaked in despair, Their footsteps echo, loud and rare. Through the desolate world they roam, Searching for what feels like home. A book of verses in their hand, Each word a key to understand. The past lies buried, deep and cold, A tale of glory, of hearts made bold. The songs...