The Bard

Fingers brush the harp strings at the stirring of the dawn,

Plucking strands of music from a world dark and forlorn,

Melodies as plangent as a pitch black stormy sea,

Harmonies as dulcet as the birds high in the trees.

A golden gleam of sunrise parts the clouds up in the sky,

And bound by awen every word is truth and ne’er a lie,

The Harper parts her lips to sing the dawn into the day

And every word is gentled by the music that she plays.

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