Bard
The old poet sat let fall his staff and cried silent tears a sorrowful refrain for a brother who had died An unlikely voice he’d had to cry and call, rage and rant our tragedies and comedies, histories and tales until at the very end of it silence claimed it when his body’d finally failed The old poet poured then raised his glass and drank to dance and deals in the sinking city to the tragic jester and comic knight who’d never wanted tears or pity















