Here begins the fragment of the Seventeenth Book of the Lost Chronicle of Albion, found beneath the stones of St. Ethelred’s, where moss grew through the windows and the roof had long since wept into the nave. Let those who read it mark well the signs, for though the names have faded, the pattern endures.

In England’s land where tyrants fell and common men once broke their chains, Now silence is the price you pay for daring words or lawful claims. No crime declared, no jury trial, no proof beyond a neighbour’s spite, Just speak too loud, or wrong online, and vanish in the dead of night. You need not steal, nor break a law, just “nuisance” is enough today, A whisper from some slighted soul, and speech itself is swept away. 

The Watchman stood with empty hand, dismissed for drawing out his blade, While felons walked with lifted brows, by law and lectured rite obeyed. The lords who sit in cloaks of silk have gagged the tongue that calls for aid, And virtue stands before the court, accused by vice in justice' shade.

They came not clad in warlike dress, but ragged hope and threadbare shoes, Across the tide of salt and dusk where shadowed traffickers enthuse. No banners flew above their heads, no flags of nation gave them shield, Just whispered names and crumpled notes and faith too young to yield.

They heard the thrum of boots on dust, not knowing friend from foe, And wagged their tails with open hearts as dawn began to glow. They thought the guests had come to play, with pockets full of meat, But terror wears a human face, not always shod in sleet.

Two days I lay beside the track where roaring monsters passed, Their wheels like thunder through my chest, but still I held on fast. I did not chase, I did not bark, I only watched and yearned, For you, who placed me on that verge, and never once returned. A stranger came with gentle hand and voice like morning dew, She knelt and spoke of food and fire, but I was waiting you. She tried to lead, I shrank away; I snapped, I shook, I cried, I didn’t know her kindness yet, I only knew you lied.

The hearth lay dim, the midnight chill crept softly through the pane, Yet something stirred against my feet, a ghost of joy, not pain. No bark announced its quiet tread, no collar’s jingle came, But breath as light as downy winds recalled a faithful name. I dared not move; the years had passed, yet still the soul remains, And in that hush I felt the warmth that time itself disdains. A whisper more than touch, a sense that reaches through the veil, Of one who watched through storm and fire, through sun and winter gale.

In gardened lands where apples fell and Newton found his law, There sits a hound with open gaze and wisdom in its paw. No creed commands its loyal heart, no scripture fires its bite, It guards the hearth with silent oaths and sleeps beside us night.

O blessed be the Comma’s curl, that keeps the breath of thought alive, And Semicolon’s stately bridge, where kindred clauses leap and thrive; The Colon stands with trumpet blast to herald lists in grand parade, While Hyphens yoke bold steeds of sense, and Dashes carve a cavalcade.

She lies hard-pressed against the gale, her timbers groan in iron strain, The combing seas rise up in green and crash across her deck in pain. Each spar is sheathed in frozen glass, the rigging sings with biting frost, The foot ropes slick with southern sleet, where many a seaman's grip was lost. The Horn, that ghost of ocean wrath, now yawns to let her stagger past, With mainsail brailled and storm jib taut, she rides the line and holds her mast. No stars to guide, no moon to see, just sleet and roar and raw command, Yet something deeper steers her keel, a fire born not of mortal hand.

The Alchemists gathered in towers of glass, where ledger meets law in a climate crusade, With parchments of promise and graphs that surpass the famine of reason their madness has made. No wind in the turbines, no sun in the pane, the sky over London is iron and still, But lo! We are carbonless, frozen and sane, while peasants grow colder atop their own hill. The cows have been banished for flatulence sin, their fields turned to condos of concrete and steel, As tractors lie rusting where green had once been, and dinners are printed, not ploughed, cooked, or real.

The creak of joints, like timbers strained, recalls my youth in canvas bold, When Solent’s tide I dared and claimed, in gaff-rigged hull of oak and gold. We hauled her west on morning's breath, where Needles cleave the chalk-white lee, And ploughed through spray with joy and death both dancing in the open sea. Old hands aloft, young blood below, we chased the western star to fade, Beyond the bay, past Finistère, where winds are sharp and legends laid.