in the age of modernity,
I remember
the sympathetic ink
that, when set alight,
produced a message.
fire danced on paper,
and brought hope to a hopeless soul.

will my fortune reveal itself,
or will it lie hidden in the caves?

I am a courier
I carry a letter
I'm bringing it to
my love, she hails
from far-off lands
her eyes are like
the sun, it sets
beyond the trees
it stabs me with
its gaze, so rare
and ne'er to be found
again, I must
retrace my steps
for, lost in thought
I seem to have passed
her house, all made
of crimson tile
a-dripping down
the lane, where garden paths
converge, to build
in essence, a friendship
as they do in Kyoto.

In nestled sighs,
I walk alone;
A weary prince,
But I have not the crown.

I sup with fools;
My gait is graceful;
I offer them samples,
Of what I find tasteful.

"Come, ye sharks!
Fill your jaws!
Accept my gifts,
Come one, come all!

But always be ready
To offer applause,
Or suffer to hear
My deadening pause."

And late at night,
Within my chamber,
I latch the door,
So none may enter.

I write in earnest,
My story to you:
A prince of fools,
But I am one too.

At Glencoe,
Where in centuries past,
Blood ran red on the snow,
Now wrapped in the quietude of summer.

The highland ridges rise over layers,
And sprawl into distant mountains,
Along the grim valley,
Ploughed by ancient giants.

The wanderer finds solace
At a bubbling creek,
Among the jagged rocks;
On each side, they ***** down,
Over shadows of green and brown

A humid chill blankets the sky.
The singing of birds is absent from this place.
The thistle grows where it wants,
And moss sprouts from among the crags.

All corners reflect an apparent emptiness,
Hiding any trace of human touch,
But the winding valley speaks in its own way,
And tells a story of desolation.

Alone in these remote wilds,
The wind carries away the echoes of forgotten ghosts
To the heathered isles of the west,
Or eastward, to the lowland dwellings.

But no reply is heard.
The steep walls silence their voices,
Their cries float eternally over the shady glen.

I ride through the birkwood,
Passing snowbanks on every corner.
Day's end light blinds me.
Holiday joy turns bittersweet in my eyes,
And my lips are as dry as the air.
A fellow stranger sits by me....
Does he know he shares my name?
...Oh well, I hear a cawing:
From the window I see a hundred crows,
Circling the frozen river....
Friends laugh in the courtyard,
But I will be lonely tomorrow.

How I wish for a song to sing:
A perfect melody,
A taste of spring.
I want a tune to reach my ears
And make my eyes
Well up with tears.

On rain-soaked streets,
I'd spend my days,
And I'd rattle through
The morning haze;
From the bouncing dream
Of a comforting song,
I'd turn my gaze skyward
As I walked along.

But now, it seems
I often can count
The streams that amount
To a deafening, dull sensation,
And whenever a song should reach my lips,
Its worth is lost from my imagination.

Oh, give me a mellow little tune;
A soothing chorus of flowers in bloom.
Or offer an epic romantic chantey,
The kind of a rhythm to suit my fancy.

Sing me a song of summertimes gone,
And give me the voice to carry it along.
Bring to my heart,
Wherever I may be,
A warm air,
A rousing melody,
In perfect harmony,
Grant me my wish,
It's all I ask,
Give me a song to sing!

When we are within the tavern,
we care not for earthly matters,
there, brows soaked in sweat,
we find ourselves among the gamblers.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well question,
and hear what I say.

Some gamble, some drink,
some behave without discretion.
But of the gamblers,
some are stripped bare,
some win clothing,
others dressed in ragged sacks.
Here, no one fears death,
instead they're throwing dice for Bacchus.

First comes the payment for the wine,
Then the drunkards drink in line:
They drink once for those in prison,
thrice for those a-living,
four times for all Christendom,
five for the faithful departed,
six for the sisters of loose virtue,
seven for the soldiers of the forest,
eight times for brothers in error,
nine times for the scattered monks,
ten times for the sailors,
eleven for the argumenting,
twelve times for those repenting,
thirteen times for those advent'ring.

For pope and king alike,
all drink without restraint.
Drinks the mistress, drinks the master,
drinks the soldier, and the pastor,
drinks the servant with the maid,
drinks the merchant for his trade,
drinks the black man, drinks the white man,
drink the wrong man and the right man,
drinks the settler, drinks the wanderer,
drink the fool, and the scholar,
Drink the poor, and the sick,
drink the slow one, and the quick,
drinks the stranger, drinks the exile,
drink the Jew and the Gentile,
drinks the boy, drinks the elder,
drink the brother and the sister,
father, mother, wife and husband,
by the hundred, by the thousand.

Six hundred coins have no duration,
when no one drinks in moderation,
although they drink with jubilation,
we receive vituperation,
And so we are in destitution.

Curse all those who slander us,
and may their names not be written the book of the just.