The traveler from a distant land pinned this flower close to his chest.
The traveler left a life of great privilege to pursue a wandering, unburdened life.
In a foreign land, by a clear lake of sweet waters, he met a frowning maiden.
"A traveler from afar? ...Huh. Not like it matters."
"You're a musician? Well then, pray do not insult me with empty praises or song."
"Just remember me as I am."
"As one about to be offered up as a sacrifice for the 'festival.'"
The traveler who had abandoned his homeland pinned this flower close to his chest.
He wished to remind himself to love no one, and become attached to nothing.
Yet he would remember that maiden as he had promised, and walk into the fire for her sake...

The departing traveler would take this crown of willow branches as a final memento.
With it, he would remember his lover, now departed like a dandelion on the breeze.
The traveler was the wandering lyrist, and that maiden in the country of wine was a prisoner of the nobility.
For reasons he knew not himself, his lyre-song revealed his true heart.
"What would move me, you ask? ...Well, it would be your smile."
"I've never known you to smile, after all. Not even once."
"I will break the chains that bind you."
"When that time comes, would you let me see you smile?"
"Yes, and thank you. It would be wonderful indeed if you could do that."
Pretty words, but who could trust them, coming from a singer?

A lyre has 4 strings.
The days he spent with his comrades in the "troupe" were probably the happiest in his life of wandering.
At first, it was just a chance meeting with the conductor — but for the invisible strings of fate.
First came the girl who used a flute as a sword, and then that fellow Kreuzlied — one by one, the traveler met them all.
In the joyous tavern, the lyrist introduced a maiden he had met by chance to his comrades amidst the singing and dancing.
The drunken traveler strummed the strings and sang in a loud voice.
With them by his side, he would never have to travel alone again...
Perhaps it would be alright to walk with them till journey's end.

Hope was ripped to shreds by ruthless might, and promises of reunion disappeared like fleeting shadows.
The wandering traveler had once against lost a place to call home.
The condescending evil stole his love's joy,
And the endless conflict ground down his irreverent soul.
Those gentle, playful rhythms of revelry,
Now turned to sharp, icy clangs.
For his comrades, for his best friend, for the tables around which none would again share wine.
For freedom, for life, and for revenge against the evil that had taken her smile.
Thus resolved, the traveler plucked his last string, and fired his final arrow.
As he grew accustomed to life in this foreign land, he gazed up at the azure sky.
Ah, so the sky here was the same as the one back in his homeland...

The traveler pursued both fate and the inexorable passage of time.
The troupe that resisted the aristocracy — and their end — could be seen the eternal flow of time.
In the course of a long journey, even the most well-made watch might cease to work.
The only unfailing marker of time was the passage of the sun and moon.
So to chase formless time, the traveler could only pursue light itself.
The great halls of the nobility, and the rebellious troupe with no room to lay their heads.
Both were churned just the same by the flow of time, and both like fleeting dreams raced towards the same destruction.
Under the moonless night sky, the dark shadows drew upon the outlander's tired face.
"The songs are spent like arrows few, to the choir the curtain calls."
"Shall I ever see you smile anew, when the tower in the city square falls?"