The Wandering Minstrel's Song
The song whirled higher than eagleís flight.
The pipeís high tones outlined piercing lament.
Eyes grew moist and throats became tight
At the pure, keening cry of the instrument.
The bardís tightly closed eyes and face revealed naught
But the pure tearing grief his tune expressed,
And the still, silent air of the tavern was fraught
With respect for the minstrelís sorrow confessed.
Rollicking dances and bawdy tunes
Are more often a troubadourís fare,
Heroic ballads or a lullabyís croons,
Not this throbbing, dark, mourning air.
The trembling sadness assaulted our ears,
The sheer unalloyed grief in his dirge.
So we quietly struggled to stifle our tears
As the final notes rose in a heartrending surge.
Now we all sit lost in grief-stricken thought
Of lost childhood dreams, utopia, bliss,
The demise of chivalrous Camelot,
Or of long sunken, sea-ringed, Atlantis.
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