the moon is a yellow blotch,
staring down in morose despair,
spectral nightingales whisper soft,
their songs filling the evening air

on his throne the fool does sit,
watching over his kingdom of lies,
listening as the nightingales sing,
the yellow glow in their ebon eyes

in the heart of seeming madness,
the jester king does rule alone,
the sorrow shines in amber light,
the shifting dismay in yellowed bone

alas the night has grown cold,
the days of somber dream
conspire, upon the nightingale’s
sweet cries, the world consumed
in tongues of fire