Listen my son to what I tell you,
I who hold the Reins of Time.
The passageways are dark and narrow,
The Snowy Ranges hard to climb.
High Himalayas she's an icy stallion
Warmed by the blood of men who love to ride
But do not mount her, till you are ready,
Or be like me and sorely tried.
The bride of Christ, she's too hot to handle
Like fire through the fingertips.
A ruby sword, a golden pommel,
The Queen oof Death pressed to the lips.
Down in the valley the bulls have assembled
White tusks gleaming in the night.
A grave before them, bones of desire
For I have long since taken flight.
As I lay sitting in the sunlight,
My wounds do slowly, slowly heal.
The Royal Nights, the Golden Laterns
The mountains horns round me peel.
High Himalayas she's an icy stallion
Warmed by the blood of men who love to ride
But do not mount her, till you are ready,
Or be like me and sorely tried.
