In the wake of Classical, I was a harpist,
Roaming about the hamlets from Aegean Sea to Galilee,
Through ears of great multitudes on earth,
Words of Gospels I passed on eons away,
Most passing by, many lost, few coming across,
To the other side of shore at heartlands.
"Gabriel," they sneered, "in the shadow of Babel Tower,
Where Word unheard and Deeds unseen, divine charm ceases."
Away I walked, upward I looked, inward I heard,
"Gabriel I not called. This is not my time yet."
In the eve of Dark, I was a minstrel,
Treading myriads of rivers from Danube to Rhrine,
Through ears of great multitudes on earth,
Sagas of saints I extolled eons away,
Most passing by, many cast away, few coming across,
To the other side of shore at heartlands.
"Alfred," they roared, "at the foot of Stony Castle,
Where arrows bent and flints shielded, shaman spells falters."
Away I walkd, upward I looked, inward I heard,
"Alfred I not called. This is not my time yet."
In the time of Renaissance, I was a composer,
Thronging amidst bazaars from the Old World to the New World,
Through ears of great multitudes on earth,
Masses of Hope I chanted eons away,
Most passing by, many forgot, few coming across,
To the other side of shore at heartlands.
"Amadeus ," they booed, "in the theatres of Vinnea,
Where French alien and German Barbarian, musical delight flashes."
Away I walkd, upward I looked, inward I heard,
"Amadues resonated! Though my time not yet."
Passing another sublime ridge of Time, here I am,
Measuring every throb and pulse from inside to outside,
I recalled my middle name Amadeus from eons away,
——"This is my era."
Winds as my messenger, Foliage my whisper.