Let loose that mindless mirth,
However soft and weary it may be.
Call out the night dwellers,
Slumbering by the apple tree.
Tell the maiden to latch the doors,
Lest the bird knows not to sing,
Heavy lies the crown they say.
Not one knows, but the crimson king.
Fear those that call your name,
O blind men, drowned by the sea.
The end is here,
And here it will be,
Wailing like a dead man’s bride,
Buried by the apple tree.