Domaredansen (The Dance of the Judges) - Orphei Drangar

It could be a deadbeat, a smooching kiss of death Going on the defense, binding to bitterness Throw it off, throw it off Got your name, got your face, got a record of your mistakes It's too easy (it's too easy) to end up sneering It's been to long now Yes it was tough, now free yourself cut it off You could age so quickly in a year of judges And if youe stand there dwelling, you're no better then your grudges. Oh how it burns, oh how it burns It's too easy to end up sneering It's been to long now Yes it was tough, now free yourself cut it off Yes it was tough, now free yourself, cut it off Don't let it stop, no, free yourself, cut it off It could be better, free yourself, cut it off Yes it was tough, now free yourself, cut it off You could age so quickly in a year of judges They see you fall on your face, but yourself off from the smudges Oh how it burns, oh how it burns It's too easy (it's too easy) to end up sneering It's been to long now Yes it was tough, now free yourself cut it off Yes it was tough, now free yourself, cut it off Don't let it stop, no, free yourself, cut it off It could be better, free yourself, cut it off Yes it was tough, now free yourself, cut it off Yes it was tough, now free yourself, just let it out, cut it off

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 ut 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