Alone at night, the stars above, the fire smoldering to embers at his feet, the minstrel strums his dreamy chords. The wind enlivens some distant trees, which swaying dance for the young musician. With a smile, he starts a waltz, badada, badada, matching his rhythm to their shadowy oscillations. The forest listens to his song as his weary hand falls upon the strings. So playing, he drifts into the foreshadows of death, into a sleep so deep that not a dream pervades. The morning sun then paints the sky a heart-wrenching blue. He wakes to descry heaven, his lyre ready.