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.
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.