THE MINSTREL OF SOLITUDE
A silhouette, on a dark misty road.
He plucked at the strings, a tune he played,
A sad song for a meal he would trade.
They cared not to listen, they puckered their ears,
Furrowed their brows, and sharpened their spears.
He looked at the sky, he silently scorned,
At the wilted roses, and the bed of thorns.
As the first drops of rain, touched the ground,
He uttered, his first ever sound.
And with a tune so resonant and sharp,
He picked up the shards of his broken harp.
He walked slowly away, to silently brood,
For he was the Minstrel of Solitude...
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