There is a tale so often told.
Told from the rusty workshop cold.
Told from the ancient woods that hold.
A legend, a story, of plains of mold.
The story the elders speak at night,
The story bestows the brave a fright.
The storied elite keep out of sight.
The forsaken ground, the Fields of Blight.
Knows not one knows the origin,
For none return from the sin.
The curses spew from grains therein,
The abandoned Fields of Blight.
But I have traveled along the road,
The path from hand and wrist to woad.
I have seen sick death abode,
And from the fields the lesson showed.
I learned that place was not a right.
I learned that place was stolen light.
I learned that place was not polite,
And took my leave from Fields of Blight.