He sits at the edge of the cliff where the dark things were long ago cast out. There the boy blows into his little reed the sweet melodies of dreams. I say dreams, for his eyes are always closed. He is dressed in tatters when I see him, but he has never accepted my offer to buy him new clothes.
I asked him why he plays. He said he plays for me, that I might sleep and dream and never wake. I like the little boy’s tunes, but his words frighten me. Still, there is a spell in it. If only he would repeat himself someday, then I might say I had heard his song and leave, but he never does. If only his skill would fail, and his notes lose all harmony, his rhythm all time, but no, every time I think he’s made his false step, some new invention of his brings it all together. His song will never end; his eyes will never open.
I would have clothed him in purple, made him a king, given him an empire, but he is the player at the edge of the world, and his soft melodies sing the dark things to sleep.
Tale Told 