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1044

Upon the ix day of Septembre, in the yere of our Lord MLXLIIII, as I rode the kyng’s high weye through the cragged mountes of the North March, I came unto a smale village, hight Byrefeld, set lowe in the vale. There found I no mirth, ne sounde of man, ne lowe of beast; but alle was still as in the slomber of death. The doorès of the cot-houses stoode wyde, the heerds unmilked, the bread half baken upon the hearth. Seeking the cause, I espied but oon soul alyve, a childe of tender yeres, crouched in the shadow of a fall’n croft. His visage was wan, and his wordès trembled as leaves in wynd. He sayde that, but two nyghts past, the hevens brake asunder with a grete noyse, and fiery vessailes, shaped as no ship on erthe, descended from the cloudès. From them issued shapes not of Adam’s kynde, clad in strange armour that shone as molten starres. These did take the folk, one and alle, and bare them into the brennyng craft. Many they slewe, yet the dead they left not as men sholde, but wrapped each in a whitish shroud, strong as iron, soft as web, that clung fast to flesh and bone, and therein the bodies did yet twitch as if not fully yelded unto death. The childe knoweth not whither the rest be borne, nor what doom these fell creatures mete unto them. My liege, by my troth, I have never beheld aught so terrible in God’s creation, nor in the imaginings of hell’s own minstrels. ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ ༒︎ Daydreamers of all kinds, please feel free to daydream while listening to this song. Content made with the use of Udio and Midjourney. If you are interested in seeing what my channel is usually about, I heartily invite you to check out my other playlists.