I get a time-worn cherry lyre from a small case within my backpack, and begin to play a slow, sad melody.

...and I sing,

I remember, not so long ago, the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.
No hearth, no home, but my lyre.
Many years I spent traveling with the camp caravan,
spending each night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

As a child, I remember Mama singing to pass the time.
She sang as she cooked, as she cleaned the grime.
And once in a while, she would look at me and sing with a smile.

One day, Mama took me to a Gypsy fair.
She bought me my first lyre.
I romped and played, but when I looked for Mama, she wasn't there.
I cried and sobbed, and spent that frightening night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

I remember, not so long ago, the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.
No hearth, no home, but my lyre.
Many years I spent traveling with the camp caravan,
spending each night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

I awoke with a sob, and looked around at the strange place.
An old woman took pity on me.
She called me to her, she washed my tear-stained face.
She fed me, and comforted me, and gave me my first lesson on my precious lyre.

Each night, I would sleep by the fire, waiting for Mama.
Each morning, Mama never came for me.
Every morning, that old woman would care for me and dry my tears.
Every morning, she would teach me to sing and play my lyre.

I remember, not so long ago, the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.
No hearth, no home, but my lyre.
Many years I spent traveling with the camp caravan,
spending each night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months.
Mama had not returned.
The gypsy woman took me in.
And loved my as my mother could not.

Time passed. I laughed and danced and sang and grew.
I lived the Gypsy life, the only one I knew.
I spent each night singing by the fire.
Sitting next to that old Gypsy woman, playing on my lyre.

One day, I found that I had grown.
A handsome boy had come to our camp.
He caught my eye,
and suddenly I did not feel so alone.

I remember, not so long ago, the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.
No hearth, no home, but my lyre.
Many years I spent traveling with the camp caravan,
spending each night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

I followed that boy when he left our camp.
I left all that I had known.
All for the chance
Of never feeling alone.

He brought me to a large city.
Sights and sounds I had never seen nor heard.
I turned around, and he had vanished, ne'er to be seen again.
So much for never feeling alone!

I wandered the streets of the city in a daze.
Wishing I could find my way home.
Until I heard the sound of a lyre
Coming from a small building near a bridge.

I remember, not so long ago, the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.
No hearth, no home, but my lyre.
Many years I spent traveling with the camp caravan,
spending each night by the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.

The Elven woman welcomed me in
Told me stories of singers, lovers, fighters and family
She encouraged me to join her guild.
I did, of course, and now a Bard I be.

Now, I am never alone.
Now, I have found my home.

And though I am so happy here
I find that I do miss
Playing my lyre each night
By the warmth of the Gypsy's fire.