It is a symbol like a star, but more
like simple light than any other thing.
It has a simple dot right at its core,
and sends out lines that touch on everything.
He is a seraph of no small renown,
who made more than the others ever did.
Whose silence is his everlasting crown,
whose work is everywhere, while always hid.
The earth and sea are known to naught but he,
and all that walk and swim do know his name.
And no-one ever walked more quietly
than he, who frowns on every form of fame.
And even if you find him, know you this:
he is the kind you are surely to miss.
~~~
It is a lyre that’s tilted on its side,
that has but three strings stretched between its arms,
still sounding, though so sideways are they tied,
still sharing all their sonant bardic charms.
He was a very good bard, after all.
So full of love for all for whom he played.
So happy—dutifully jovial—
until the very day he was betrayed.
He was like many that you will have seen,
and here the tilted lyre will help recall
that bards share joy for how sad they have been,
so that they do not, even farther, fall.
But this one fell. And many more do now.
I will not be the one to tell you how.
~~~
This one’s an upright rectangle, a line
towards its base that separates a third,
and that base third is shaded, as a sign
of shadow in the bell of the cowherd.
She was a wise attendant to the farm
that Aeonia’s mortal semblance sowed,
who bore the weight of all, and all the harm
that mortals made, all while she softly lowed.
And that sound was a boon to all that heard,
who heard as well the ring of her cowbell,
as passed she and the dutiful shepherd
in every age, and every field as well.
You don’t see her as often anymore.
The farmer’s field is now a thing of yore.
~~~
An incorrect shape of a music note
is this one, with a flag on the left side.
The normal eighth note’s flag is rightly wrote
on its right side, but at least this one tried.
He did try. He tried so, so very hard.
Poor jester. Dear young man, with his dear mind,
so broken that he could not be a bard,
but brilliant enough to still be kind.
The greatest mental fracture couldn’t break
the heart of that dear boy—how well he sang
to every heart that he could tell could ache.
How sweet the broken singing that he brang.
But greatest were his listeners, who stayed,
despite the breaking way the jester played.
~~~
This symbol is of fire. Hard to make,
but harder for the one who made it first.
So worth it for how oft the shape will take
the stage—the extra work is blest, not cursed.
For he deserves the cramping of your hand.
His hand cramped, too, far more than most, for you.
And when you write it, do not make it bland,
or plainer than it is. Make well. Make true.
He didn’t cut his corners when he burned.
Don’t cut yours in his honor. Show him well
that this, of all our symbols, is well earned.
As is the part of him that lives in hell.
If fire comes from fire, call it good.
I can think of no better brotherhood.
~~~
And this one is a claw, as from a paw,
aimed up and rightward, toward your right hand.
There used to be blood dripping from the claw,
but few could draw it—less could understand.
They always hated using them that way,
the ones who bore those claws. So it is well
that they should have had their blood done away,
so that it might not, in the mem’ry, tell.
Especially he who had borne this one.
His was an all too bloody, claw-y tale.
I’ll not continue now to have it spun
as prejudiced bards will so oft regale.
He was quite fair. Say, “fare” was in his name.
It’s too bad that to blood his story came.