The Song of the InnKeeper’s Son
Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.
The torn limbs lie everywhere.
The warriors come to the inn. They do not dismount.
They come from the north and they shout and they call for strong wine.
They point to the east and they point to the west and the south.
They point to the barn where you hide me, o father of mine.
Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.
The torn limbs lie everywhere.
You kiss me. You whisper. You bid me lie still in the grain.
You fill up the bowl from the jar. You go back to the yard.
And the warriors drink and they laugh in the heat of the wine.
There is blood on the saddlecloth, blood on the sheath of the sword.
Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.
The torn limbs lie everywhere.
A magpie comes pushing its head through the thatch of the barn
And it hops to the bin and it pecks at the grain where I lie
And it pecks at the grain and it pecks at the face of your son
And they throw down the bowl and they run to the barn where I cry
Crying
Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.
The torn limbs lie everywhere.
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He will mend the bowl with a wire. He cannot mend the heart.
He will pour out the wine from the jar. He will come to the grave
And from every tear that he pours, every drop that he spills,
I shall drink from the heat of the wine of his grief and his love.
The Song of The General
The moon is sharp on the blade.
The dew shines on the hill.
The heart bleeds dark
And my men lie still.
The heads on the palisades
Dried in the wind so black
Call out to the venturing foe:
Turn back, fool, turn back.
Here snores no feasted clown
Who has drunk disgrace with his wine.
Here drools no amorous dupe
In the lap of his concubine.
Here watches a bitter pride
In exile lonely and long.
He serves an unjust lord.
He endures a continuing wrong.
One watches. One endures
On the ramparts, on the towers,
The laughter of the stars,
The taunts of the small hours.
Who sweeps my ancestors’ graves?
Who holds the reins for my son?
Will my dog still come to my call?
Does my wife sleep alone?
I serve an unjust lord.
Exile is an early tomb.
The heart bleeds dark.
Death is a journey home.
By the bright dew on the hill,
By the sharp blade of the moon,
I shall wake my grieving men.
I shall make that journey soon.