A dark bard
Sits obsidian, unmoving,
Face by anguish marred,
Glare reproving.
Black are his broodings
Brought on by a past frozen in memory.
Forever lost are some things -
Utterly written out of life's story.

Thus, there he rests,
Heart stilled by searing pain,
Ballad-writing and storytelling long put to rest
The lack unmoved by even flame.

His heart is heavy,
His soul too empty to create.
Yet, in his darkness, he is ready
For one to come who can relate
And free his voice to sing
And soar once again,
To make his guitar strings once more ring
And forgive the wrongs of past sin.

One cold, crushing night
His ebony-hued reverie is broken.
A flash of glimmering dark to his right:
A single melodious word is spoken.
Some opulent creature of myth and legend
Rises from the ashes of songs once sang
To bring his sorrowful silence to an end
And remove from his heart that icy pang.

"Oh, muse, sweetest and most blessed,"
quoth he in trembling tones
"Thou hast saved me from misery's grip of dread
Given reason to stir to these old bones;
Furnished me with memory of some great sable beauty
With which to fill my traveller's songs."
In awe continued he,
Once more made strong.
His heart filled with music once more,
He rose to meet the dawning day
Whose light did he now adore
And praise in songs joyous and gay.

- The Dark Caller