The Minstrel, The Lute

A minstrel picks a dusty lute on the shelf,

And wipe it with a damp white cloth,

The minstrel rests the brown lute upon his lap,

And he tries to strum the lute like the old days.

But…

The minstrel gazes the lute instead of plucking it,

And rub his fingers upon its strings and pear-shaped body,

Ah! He noticed and say, “Still my good lute!”

And he tries to strum the lute like the old days.

As he tries…

“What is the chord again? Let me see…” says he,

And the mellow “C” chimes out finally,

How nice, how nice, isn’t it?

Tis’ lute starts singing again!

Wait…

Is the minstrel still the minstrel?

Or has he turned to a ventriloquist instead?

His calluses have all gone,

What is left?

Then the minstrel stopped, mesmerized,

Am I still I?

And the minstrel looks at the lute;

The lute looks old…

The minstrel then plays a note, then a chord, then a song,

Ah, the lute is still mellow just like the old days!

Perhaps mellower because the memoirs sing along,

Chanting and clapping with rhymes of wisdom.

Am I still I?

The minstrel smiles,

Is that lute still the lute?

If it is, then I am still I indeed.