Gold sun on the blue mountain
Topple clouds thru the bent tall trees
Morning climbs the filtering wood
Evening descends low to the stream
A bountiful beautiful picture
Vanishing, fading by and by
Emblems, ephemeral tokens
Raise, yield, fall and die
The same clown with a different face
The same man in a different cloak
As long as the mode of weather
The sleeping blue, the waking gold
Light as the froth on the girgling water
Winding by the tree
Awoke in a dream of puzzle
Hand held head with finger hasps
Fit in snuggling little pieces
In the poetry of a thousand pasts
In the rime of every season
To the tune of every tide
In the mounting of a thousand suns
Casting by they wont abide
Hear the memories of a thousand songs
Fleeting, they were never written
From the stories of the sleeping queen
That scribes have all forgotten
Follow the pettle of the flower
On the branch of the tree
Quivers alight of the archer's wand
Arrows path thin set between
The flesh and the seed of the fruit
On the branch of the tree in the dream of the queen
Set a staraway child from the crux and the cradle
Weaving the onerical design
Coursing thru five fingers
One hand pours the water and wine
And though the cloth has a thousand laces
The thread has just one strand
Sheathed in motley costume
Each in a different cloak, the same man
Run the tsar in the root of the tree...
Topple clouds thru the bent tall trees
Morning climbs the filtering wood
Evening descends low to the stream
A bountiful beautiful picture
Vanishing, fading by and by
Emblems, ephemeral tokens
Raise, yield, fall and die
The same clown with a different face
The same man in a different cloak
As long as the mode of weather
The sleeping blue, the waking gold
Light as the froth on the girgling water
Winding by the tree
Awoke in a dream of puzzle
Hand held head with finger hasps
Fit in snuggling little pieces
In the poetry of a thousand pasts
In the rime of every season
To the tune of every tide
In the mounting of a thousand suns
Casting by they wont abide
Hear the memories of a thousand songs
Fleeting, they were never written
From the stories of the sleeping queen
That scribes have all forgotten
Follow the pettle of the flower
On the branch of the tree
Quivers alight of the archer's wand
Arrows path thin set between
The flesh and the seed of the fruit
On the branch of the tree in the dream of the queen
Set a staraway child from the crux and the cradle
Weaving the onerical design
Coursing thru five fingers
One hand pours the water and wine
And though the cloth has a thousand laces
The thread has just one strand
Sheathed in motley costume
Each in a different cloak, the same man
Run the tsar in the root of the tree...