This is the lay of the cruel bard
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He wrote it himself in his perilous youth
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And nobody knows and no other lay tells
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If fate finally gave him a lesson or no
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He was a bard as anyone else yet nature had praised him a gift of its worth - an irresistible beauty
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and charm of the lords, which he did not hesitate to use for his own good
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Pleasure he seeked and the inevitable pain, which eventually scorched his soul beyond recognition
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so that it was never completely healed unless for the moments when he was alone with the
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splendour of nature and his love for the sky
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Long roads did he take and many a path and lots of young girls fainted away to his enthralling
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songs and caressing lips. Yet his heart could not find any place for a rest...
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(Oh) The cruel bard
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He was
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And his lays were fair
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As dew in the grass
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Yet his heart was of stone...
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Thousands of burnt villages he left behind
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And thousands of hearts unmended
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Wherever he went he brought pleasure, then woe
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To daughters and mothers and envious men
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He knew it all very well, the cruel bard
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But, hell, he had nothing at all to disown
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So he just grinned as the devil himself
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And all the women around lost their pride
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Although he sometimes did try to unlock his heart
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Hid under strong chest of marble and snow
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Yet he could not help loving anyone else
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But himself and the dark of his kingly bent brows
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Like a motionless sculpture of a pale heathen god
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The bard used to stare in a mirror of glass
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And he was ensnared in the webs of his own
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Reflection of beauty so kingly yet cold...
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-----------------
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The Cruel Bard
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Heresiarh |