(King Crimson: "In the Court of the Crimson King", aus dem gleichnamigen Album, 1969)
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 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 gently pulls the strings;
And smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.