Once upon a time there was a bard with a harp; lovable, witty and smart. He used to sing every night in the Scarborough Fair; full of joy, full of life, full of heart. He was deeply in love with a star who would turn up at night with a mesmerizing flare; full of grace, full of light, full of spark.
But the bard soon learned that ‘not all that glitters is gold’. His star disappeared in the night, and he saw her vague and unreal as a ghost; made of calm, made of soul. He feared his star dead and gone from the sky, so his heart turned out cold; made of glass, made of stone.