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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。

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