There stands the fiddler,
Baying at the moon,
One eye searching the sky,
The other, long blinded,
Dreams of faeries dancing,
In wheat fields freshly harvested,
Begging for a tune.

He was a merry sort,
Until tragedy struck him down,
Stole an eye and his humor rye,
And forever silenced his song.

Are we scorned by the Master,
For lives draped with guile,
Or simply victims of coincidence,
Tripping blindly through the night?

Name your sinister kings,
Fine fiddler,
They who have enslaved your soul,
Free yourself for evermore,
And let the faeries dance again.

Surely pain is king abhorrent,
And deception repugnant more,
Betrayal steals trust from deep within,
And conspiracy leaves you all alone.
Add these to the seven,
And that, you see, makes eleven,
And the fiddler plays no more.

And then one night,
In the fading light, he sees
Aurora Borealis arise,
And on the tail
Of a brilliant green swale,
The legions of faeries
Have returned.

“Rosin up the bow,
Fine fiddler,
We long to skip once more.
We’ve quelled your evil demons,
And long for tunes adored.”