Alas, this poem is not particularly cheerful. I enjoyed writing it, though. It was inspired
by the reference to a weeping raven in my story, "A Leftover Prince."
The eyes of the raven, black and
bright, weep tears of fiery red.
He weeps the blood of a
minstrel-man whose life is at an end.
The man once sang in the court of
the king
Of triumphant love and bold,
And watched the suitors who dueled
each other
But left the princess cold.
The minstrel sang of sun and dew,
as he gazed up into her face,
And her soul was stirred, but not
for him—he had no physical grace.
She saw instead the willowy back
Of the groom on her daily ride,
For his skin was warm when he
touched her hands,
And she wanted to be his bride.
Secret and unsuited love,
short-lived and fresh as dew!
The minstrel saw, and told the
king, who gave the boy his due.
The minstrel wept upon his bed
For things that could not be
And when his harp and bag were
packed
He tried at last to flee.
The princess waited with her
curse; his voice she took away
She gave him wings of glossy black
and sent his mind astray.
Among the aspens and the oaks,
He sits and waits alone,
His heart pumps tears that pool
below,
Like shadows of a throne.
