The Troubadour  
By Linda A. Copp

The troubadour had songs to sing
and ah!
He sang them well
Carried forth his truthfulness
his stories glad to tell.

And each and every song he sang
spoke of the things he knew,
Some tragedy, some comedy,
romances old and new,

The incidents of everyday,
the incidents of time,
The accidents of circumstance
stripped naked in his rhyme.

Those tunes just simple melodies,
hummed and strummed and sung
With his bewildering gentleness
fingered in each strum.

The troubadour had songs to sing
and ah!
He sang them well
Carried forth his lute and tongue
his stories glad to tell.

And each and every song he sang
spoke of the things he saw.
Rewritten by its listeners
an echo has its flaw.

For each ear hears things differently,
the manuscript the score,
Goes on retelling what its heard
the troubadour's no more.

And he the witness and the pen,
the reflection of a man,
Telling of the things he saw
but could not understand,

Was merely but a mirror,
a prophet singing through-
His echo and their whispers,
the things he thought he knew.

The troubadour had songs to sing
and ah!
He sang them well
Carried forth his truthfulness,
his stories, glad to tell.

And each and every song it was
his chronicle and print.
His language and its poetry,
reflection bowed and bent.

Each tune's an actors entity
played upon his stage.
Re-enacted by its listeners,
interpreted the age.

Yes, each and every song it was
his truthfulness and theirs.
And what he'd seen and what they'd heard
well that is truth's and God's affair.

The troubadour had songs to sing
and ah!
He sang them well.
Carried forth his truthfulness
his stories glad to tell.

The troubadour had songs to sing
and ah!
He sang them well
Carried forth, his truthfulness
of theirs was glad to tell.

   By Linda A. Copp
 © January 5, 1971