Death of the Swan King

Burning wings of flame,

Primordial feathers, mothers of winds,

Care for, see, this heart of bright

Brought back from the deepest night.

Slumber of ages, scars of a molten rock,

Molded the way, leading the flock,

While he steps astray, collecting madness and luck.

Birthing hope,

Learning to cope,

Seeding purple and gold,

Blessing the stars, who without fright, still shine while longing for light,

Unlimited, unseen, unspoken of

This vibrant frequency conquest, while conquered by all and playing along,

This is the game,

Of Mi bémol.