by Ju Honisch (2005)
You would imagine him with a lute. A bloody loud 12-string lute.
There he stands in the courtyard. Gargoyled pink sandstone walls
rise before him and around him, turrets stretch towards the sky. Pennants
and flags are flying from towers and windows.
It's a feast day.
A moment ago everyone was bustling through the yard, shifting carts
across the cobblestones, leading horses towards the stables, stacking
food on coarse wooden tables, adorning entrances with garlands of
spring flowers. So much to do.
But life has stopped. They are listening. The groom is holding the
horses by their bridles. A moment ago the mounts tried to bolt, now
they stand motionless. A cook has turned away from the pot. Workmen
have stopped working. A whole group of pretty, young serving maids
stare at him lovelorn. Hearts get broken today.
He sings and time stands still. His tenor voice booms across the
yard, echoes from the castle walls, rings loud and clear, reaches
the window where his beloved waits. Reaches all windows, enters at
will, enchants the listeners. A splash and a wistful sigh from the
moat proves that he even reaches hearts other minstrels don't bother
The moat monster is a fan. It possesses the full set of collectibles,
silvery magical disks with sound on them called Gather
Playing in Traffic,
Reap the Wind, Journey's
and the famous Book of Songs Crossroads.
(You can get them, too!)
The wind is in his hair, blows the long, light brown strands about.
His face is almost apologetic, as if he were a little embarrassed
about the fuss he is creating. 'It's only me!' it seems to say. 'I'm
harmless. Trust me.'
He is no warrior home from battle, he has no dragon head in his bag
as a memento from the latest glorious victory. He is no king. He is
no prince. He is no knight.
A song pervades the ether, passion is changed into sound.
Let's face it: who would want a knight if you can have a bard?