The King Is Dead

Facing his closing winter coming, the old king lies dying on his bed
his last hourglass is running and the reaper ́s voice is humming through the howling of the wind
Lying down there in all this splendor, all of his ghosts of doubts come to creep in on him
If he ́d made all of his judgements wisely, if he ́d acted and spoke out precisely, what kind of anthem
will they sing, then?

And in his head - the voices sing: the king is dead, long live the king

Now the rumors say that there ́s a stormfront comin`, from all over the land, increasingly
the dogs of war are already running, and the old man might be just too blind or unable to see

Now let weapons speak, canonboats to the sea.
We ́ve been patient too long, now we ́ll make them see
our banner will wave, no longer we ́ll wait, our future begins
the higher the price, the greater the win

Countless voices rising, together they sing: the king is dead, long live the king

I took a walk out in the moonlight, over the cold and empty fields
along the way beneath the river, where you and I used to sit and laugh, and sometimes I dream
We ́re dancing slowly in the moonlight, light-hearted minds on carelessness feet
We ́re moving closely to our own rhythm, taking ourself as given,
and pretending our future was free

Then I feel quite sad, and it makes me think, that the freedom is gone, just like the king