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...