The dance of the puppets   The rusted chains of prison moons   Are shattered by the sun.   I walk a road, horizons change   The tournaments 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 pilgrims 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 gray 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 gentle pulls the strings   And smiles as the puppets dance   In the court of the crimson king.