Joy Like Swords

Inspiration, move me brightly
light the song with sense and color,
hold away despair
More than this I will not ask
-- Robert Hunter

‘And in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.’
-- J. R. R. Tolkien



The minstrel wandered in a great confusion of notes – bridle clink, sword ring, tree groan. They swirled about him, refusing to compose themselves.

In the City, rebuilding had begun, hearts were gladdened, but here all was yet somber. He sighed a short glissando. So many still unwhole, hearts thrumming, some quickening … some fading. So many noble men … so many fell deeds. Yet they had triumphed, cleaved a new world from the old; a world they had hardly yet glimpsed.

The minstrel stopped, and smiled, harmonies of sunrise, starshine, green hills and bright towers at last beginning to coalesce about him.