I the minstrel, sit atop a tall stool in the corner of the pub, singing wistfully:
Black suns rise over yonder,
blaring in half tones the arrival of the blind mute,
bound in tight threads pregnant with disheartened whispers and desperate whimpers.
Cast unceremoniously against a vengeful gale,
lump thuds sing silently with a quiet chorus.
To the gods they say: here is your man, here is your man, he who cannot see, hear or speak.
Let the red tides recede, and the moon shine.
Let these angered beasts retreat into the bosom of the forests.
Paltry and shallow breaths from the expectant: sad men of ancient stock now long forgotten.