The Court of the Crimson King
The
rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road,
horizons change
The 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.
The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I
wait outside the pilgrim's door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen
chants
the funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon
back the fire witch
To the court of the Crimson King.
The gardener plants an evergreen
Whilst trampling on a
flower.
I chase the wind of a prism ship
To taste the sweet and
sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
The orchestra begin.
As
slowly turns the grinding wheel
In the court of the Crimson King.
On soft grey mornings widows cry
The wise men share a
joke;
I run to grasp divining signs
To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow
jester does not play
But gently pulls the strings
And smiles as the
puppets dance
In the court of the Crimson King.
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