The Home of Balladry
The home of balladry, of the melodic wind,
the whistling trees,
the flutes of the forest nymphs,
the air that passes through the keys,
the magic air that breaks into pieces
into melodies that soothe the senses,
lullabies for the hard charging spirits,
the music in the glen,
the keeper of the sounds
locked away in cerebral vaults,
house of the wandering truths,
the poets in charge of the wandering,
the balladeers that push it along,
the dreamers that knead it and make it pliant,
that dress it up in the finest satin
and paint it in pastel colors,
the truth that keeps the house together
but runs with the nomadic spirit at times,
the un-taming of the tamed
that dances with the wild wind,
rides upon the drifting clouds,
and lives out the dysfunctional dreams,
while inventing new truths along the way,
and balladeers looking in the eyes of beauty
that form the sadness that
runs through their skin,
the tears of reverence flowing freely,
the silent prayers that come to them,
the altars they find in their silent depths
as they worship its divine nature
from the spontaneous psalms
running through their mind,
the sadness, the joy, the reverence,
the clarity, the elation, the intelligence,
the wisdom, the self-assuredness,
the heart and soul of the poets,
the seekers of divine wisdom,
the keepers of the words and sounds,
all in the mind of the balladeer,
the keeper of the home.
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