The rusted chains of prison moonsAre shattered by the sun.I walk a road, horizons changeThe tournament's begun.The
purple piper plays his tune,The choir softly sing;Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,For the court of the crimson king.T
he keeper of the city keysPut shutters on the dreams.I wait outside the pilgrim's doorWith insufficient schemes.The black q
ueen chantsthe funeral march,The cracked brass bells will ring;To summon back the fire witchTo the court of the crimson kin
g.The gardener plants an evergreenWhilst trampling on a flower.I chase the wind of a prism shipTo taste the sweet and sour
.The pattern juggler lifts his hand;The orchestra begin.As slowly turns the grinding wheelIn the court of the crimson king
.On soft gray mornings widows cryThe wise men share a joke;I run to grasp divining signsTo satisfy the hoax.The yellow je
ster does not playBut gentle pulls the stringsAnd smiles as the puppets danceIn the court of the crimson king.