I wish my lips were sown together,
with two threads of poisoned leather,
and never did the day I see more,
when I sat and sung herald lore.

For thrice the song bird did come to me,
and he sung me a song that said just to be.
The fault in this was for heaven to see,
and a bleeding song bird was the fee.

As my encharged ballad did shake the skies,
I only wished that songbird flys.
But only then did I see,
the nature of life was killing me,
that haunting anguish of killing strife,
the succinct summary of modern life.

For each being I killed with my song,
I started to heartache with breath and long.
Only when their blood did flow,
would my wounds together softly grow.
Interlacing in a map of scars,
My criminal mind belongs behind bars.

This is the bards soft lore,
to sing songs of death by gore.
To call from the skies above,
tales of anguish to stir lost love.

And only then through heartache grows,
the bards ability for music to show.

This bloody gift was given to men,
and now all they can hope is to make amend.