This was written to the tune of "Ballade in F minor", by SineQuaNon, the man who wrote the tune for "Lullaby". Here's the link:
www. freewebs. com/ mordantmidi/ Ballade20in20F20minor. mp3
You have to delete the spaces and copy and paste it for it to work.
This is what I call lyric prose, since it's a prose piece set to music. This is literally word for note. Songs like this tell a definite story, if you only listen to them, and sometimes, they're so immediately clear I can see it well enough to write it. "The Jungle" and two short as-yet unnamed pieces are the same way. When my computer gets up and running, I might pull them all together like I've done with my songs.
My suggestion is listen to the song at least a couple times before reading the story. Once will suffice though, if you don't have the patience.
A ruined city, the aftermath of an epic battle. There are no buildings standing whole -
perhaps one might find a partial wall or an empty doorframe, but no more. Smoke rises
solemnly from fires still smoldering beneath the rubble, against a blood red and smoke-
streaked sky. A hand stretches from beneath a collapsed building, burned and blackened.
Timbers stand barren in the air, grim testament for the lives that once abounded here,
markers for the countless dead remaining here. A lone banner, torn and tattered, flutters in
a parody of merriment. A breeze stirs the ashes, lifting them in small eddies as if phantom
steps pass by. Lost memories of life long gone are scattered about – a doll, a hair, a scrap
of clothing. Death stalks the skies, silent and severe. No witnesses, no records. Not a sound
is made, not a whisper heard. Not a soul moves to testify to the death of an existence, of a
community, of a civilization.
(MUSICAL INTERLUDE OF ABOUT TWENTY SECONDS)
A ruined civilization, the aftermath of a great downfall. There are no remainders - perhaps
one might find a lone fragment, but no more. Cries rise brokenly from throats still raw from
mourning, against a backdrop of persecution. Hope stretches from beneath the collapsed
hearts of survivors, beaten and small. Nothing is left to tell the tale of those who came
before, to those who come after.
I named this piece "Jerusalem" because of the picture I read in it. After the destruction of the Second Temple, eyewitnesses reported that the streets were bathed in blood up to the ankle. The Romans set the city on fire after a massive siege and burned it to the ground, killing countless people. They took the survivors of the whole Jewish nation away as slaves. I wrote the story before I saw the parallel, but it works.