"coda", Felix Deng
the minstrel casts for the moon
in the surface of the lake; cat-gut
strings now used as fishing line —
but the fish sense his restlessness
and none would come to bite. once,
he was speaker of the earth, crafting
whole universes in a single phrase.
now perched on his branch he nurses
rusted joints — the strings of his lute
now tangle his hands; the scourge
of disuse has stolen his voice, its harmony
drifting from its allotted course. and so,
he whiles away his time, a living
echo of his youth. in the quiet,
the songbird weeps. she has forgotten
her birthright, the melody plucked
from the wind. the minstrel averts his ears,
wary of treading upon a private shame,
but within her soft lament he overhears
himself in patchwork form — a refrain
he had long abandoned. he waits
for her song to take form once more.