The dance of the puppets 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… mehr erfahren