I have heard you play the harp
and sing when the spirit of the Shaper
has entered you and know your songs
of victories and defeats, trust and betrayal
is our story cast on other characters
in another time. You cannot sing the song
of here and now and yet you cannot be
silent. A pleasing voice. Tales well-told
and the magic of words has sometimes held
me long enough outside the walls of Hart
Hall for me to cast a reprieve for the night,
a weakness of mine, a refusal to attack.
I go back and leave no sign of my visit;
you know nothing how the words
have moved me, those shared memories
that have made us more than brothers,
those shared memories that have made
our lives our story – king and monster,
the curse of each and each of us seeking
some kind of victory or defeat to hear
the final verse repeated and the echo
of a final note. I, too, play and sing
but unheard by anyone. No-one pounds
tables, calls for mead; I have no hall
but yours and when I do sing there all
you hear are screams, the songs of death
you taught me, O brother, O king, hee, hee, hee.
-Byron Hoot
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