歌曲 | The Court of the Crimson King |
歌手 | King Crimson |
专辑 | The Compact King Crimson |
作词 : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield | |
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 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. |
zuò cí : Fripp, McDonald, Sinfield | |
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 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. |