They bring the dead musicians here
inside the Bardic Gates.
There’s always music playing when
another grave awaits.
Another bard to fill it,
or perhaps a troubadour…
It doesn’t really matter.
If you’re resting here, you’re poor.
Beware of passing late at night.
The music pulls you in,
and once inside there’s no escape.
You can’t outrun your skin.
The music slowly changes you
to something that you’re not.
And spirits wander restlessly
as bodies slowly rot.
The spectral dancers waltz across
the brittle, frozen grass.
But here, there’s no nobility,
nor wretched underclass.
For music is a thread of life
that stitches trouble’s tolls,
so ever will eternal Death
fill earth with Bardic souls.
BlackQuill 