--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....
"I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use – silence, exile, and cunning." - James Joyce