This is the lay of the cruel bard He wrote it himself in his perilous youth And nobody knows and no other lay tells If fate finally gave him a lesson or no He was a bard as anyone else yet nature had praised him a gift of its worth an irresistible beauty And charm of the lords, which he did not hesitate to use for his own good Pleasure he seeked and the inevitable pain, which eventually scorched his soul beyond recognition So that it was never completely healed unless for the moments when he was alone with the Splendour of nature and his love for the sky Long roads did he take and many a path and lots of young girls fainted away to his enthralling Songs and caressing lips. yet his heart could not find any place for a rest... oh the cruel bard He was And his lays were fair As dew in the grass Yet his heart was of stone... Thousands of burnt villages he left behind And thousands of hearts unmended Wherever he went he brought pleasure, then woe To daughters and mothers and envious men He knew it all very well, the cruel bard But, hell, he had nothing at all to disown So he just grinned as the devil himself And all the women around lost their pride Although he sometimes did try to unlock his heart Hid under strong chest of marble and snow Yet he could not help loving anyone else But himself and the dark of his kingly bent brows Like a motionless sculpture of a pale heathen god The bard used to stare in a mirror of glass And he was ensnared in the webs of his own Reflection of beauty so kingly yet cold...
bard, yet, kingly, cruel, lay