The Fisher King of Dinas Bran

On a hilltop crowned with crows, Dinas Bran, a castle old,
Whispers echo, legends grow, of a king with a heart of gold.
Bran the Blessed, they once did call, a ruler wise and strong,
But a wound unseen did bring him fall, and a kingdom filled with wrong.

The Fisher King, by the misty lake, a crown of thorns upon his brow,
Casts his line for a fish to take, a cure for the land, somehow.
The land grows barren, the people grieve, a sickness hangs in the air,
Only the Grail, some believe, can lift the curse and end despair.

From Celtic myths, his story weaves, a king of summer's light,
Guiding souls to the Otherworld, beneath the moonlit night.
But darkness crept, a twisted spear, pierced him through with unseen blight,
His touch now withers, year by year, the land withers in his sight.

Is Dinas Bran his castle keep? A fortress shrouded in mist?
Do whispers on the Welsh wind creep, of the Fisher King unkissed?
Or is it just a tale they tell, to fill the hearts of men with fright?
A legend's echo, a haunting spell, beneath the cold and starry night.

Then came a knight, with heart so pure, on a quest for the sacred cup,
The Grail, a vision, ever sure, to lift the curse and fill it up.
He faced trials, both fierce and grand, through forests deep and mountains high,
Until he reached the Fisher's land, beneath the weeping, mournful sky.

The Fisher King, with eyes downcast, beheld the knight, a hopeful spark,
"Ask your question, the die is cast," he rasped, a voice worn thin and dark.
The knight, with courage, pure and bright, spoke the words to break the spell,
And as he spoke, a radiant light, bathed the land, a wondrous well.

But legends weave a double thread, a truth to cause both fear and awe,
Bran's head, they say, when life had fled, lies buried deep beneath the law.
In London's heart, the ravens call, where once the Tower did rise,
And Britain's fate may stand or fall, on those black wings that paint the skies.

The Fisher King, with newfound strength, rose from his throne of pain and woe,
The Grail, a symbol at last length, had brought new life, a fertile flow.
The land rejoiced, the crows took flight, on Dinas Bran, the castle strong,
For in the depths where shadows lie, the Fisher King's hope lived on in song.
But heed the whispers on the breeze, the ravens' watchful, dark display,
For Bran still guards, beyond the seas, and Britain's fate may turn to grey.