He's told his stories thru hymns and symphonies
peculiar tales such as joyous atrocities
and spends his night serenading the moon
sad, his music will fade anytime soon
he's sang his songs for months and years
and only his guitar felt the shedding of his tears
he loves to stay on treetops and cliffs
to where he humms his melodious grief
tonight he sings before his audience of none
his throat has failed, his voice is nearly gone
he's grown deaf, and his ears are at peace
the bard retires playing his final piece.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem