Ho there, traveler,
wandering tide,
dock your ship a moment and let this old soul aboard your vessel.
A curtain of rags and a skeletal frame:
surely you've seen your share of apparitions on this lonely sea?
Set sail, set sail, I'll tarry no more--
Who am I? I am a jester in the king's court. I play the harp and the fiddle to a crowd of no persons. The Wind does not touch me, nor does it leave me. I feel it, waiting in the wings of a Hall too large to fit me.
Would that my crown was golden and my robes full of splendor,
my words were music melodies and my heart sang freely,
perhaps they would spread forth to fill this Hall with wonders and luminosities.
Then would It touch me, Its gracing caress upon my back, and raise me to new heights.
But wait! I hear the clarion call! The fire in the hearth is yet burning. My eyes are cast to its flickering flame; my soul does set itself to yearning.
Make port, make port then, for I must tend it.
There is no rest on this roiling sea, and all its froths and bubbles are vanities to me.
Farewell to you, farewell to all lamenting.
A ghost I was to thee; a ghost no more you'll see. The fire burns unending.
