🇳🇱
The billowing clouds.
The burning hills.
The billowing clouds that puff and flower,
Are calling me to an ancient bower.
I must sing my song.
The wheel.
Swings. Spins. Turns.
Where no thing is, shall nothing be.
Only then will I be free.
The wheel, it turns,
it comes around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel, it turns,
it comes around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel doth turn,
it rolls around.
Gather ‘round the wheel, my friends,
And make amends,
and make amends.
All this is about to end.
The night doth bleed into morn,
Sunlight seeping through the dawn,
Decayed, forlorn.
The wheel doth turn,
it rolls around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel, it turns,
it spins around.
Fellows, come, come.
Share with me your tired tales,
And let my windy words fill your empty sails,
As you travel across gray hills and brownish dales.
Around the hub we sail.
The grinding wheel It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
Around the wheel we lightly prance, Around its hub we sprightly dance.
The grinding wheel,
it rolls around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The fickle fates, the cosmic grind,
Conspire to leave our friends behind.
-- Twilight, The Lexx
