Though you've seen the faces
you thought were gold,
and you've followed traces
of castles old,
you thought were gold,
and you've followed traces
of castles old,
you still can't sleep at night,
your face is under light
which shines into your eyes
from windows which have sight.
You scream that you want more,
your voice you slowly lose.
And, then, the giant door
upon you, casts its news.
You scream and scream again.
The bed in which you lie
can take no more and then
your feet and hands all die.
You yell for yellow gold,
the food of which you ate-
sad silver slates of old-
then dies your mind in hate.
