Song's End

On his golden throne,
the grey king - sits;
he gazes toward the sun,
that flares red - in the west.

The minstrel strikes his harp,
it sounds a victory song;
but harsh solemnity,
rejects such resonance.

Now, he plays soft refrains.
Meant more to touch the soul.
Hoping by gentler means,
Be the King's console.

His labor is unavailing,
the realm of song is drained;
and on the king's brow, gather
stormclouds of distress.
In deep despair the minstrel
breaks his harp in two;
the cry of silver strings
quavers through the air.

Although all also tremble,
the ruler shows no wrath;
beams of benevolence
stream across his face.
"You must not find me guilty
of hard-heartedness;
in springtimes now long faded
you gave me such pleasure.

How every joy was heightened
that fell from fortune's bounty!
What any god denied me,
your playing reimbursed.

But now, from my cold heart,
song's magic slips away,
and ever nearer stride
life's brevity and the grave."