Envelopes Of Yesterday

I feel like a rusty key I don't fit any door
You stole my cloudy castles but you didn't say what for.
You said I didn't have the eyes to paint out in the street
Without a standard martyr's hat and neon sloganned
feet.
To eat, it seems, I needed you for crumbs your need was
me.
We cheered and passed the sanguine flask till the ice
man made me see
At five o'clock you could never wash your printer's stain
away;
So I count you lost and your words I've tossed
In the bleary envelopes of yesterday.

I feel like a tumbling kite there's no hand on my reel.
I dived aboard your star-bright ship to find you'd left the
wheel
To hunt some upstart passengers who had gambled with
their fare
Then trumpeted the hull with holes and laughing gone
by air.
Whilst most of us who stayed aboard slipped brandy to
the crew
John Purser locked his iron box and pointed at the queue.
Still working out the price of time no echoes will we lay;
So I've burnt the till and I've thrown the bills
In the weary envelopes of yesterday.

I need to suck the breasts of time and freeze her milk in
ink
To juggle cruets full of dreams and balance on the brink.
Don't blame me if my smoke and steam obscured your
rutted track,
I only meant to startle you not offer you my back
To ride upon and overload with your jars of unbaked clay.
You can find your guide to the pulpit ride
in the dreary envelopes of yesterday.

I'm upside down I'm an empty town my eyes are full of
ghost
Of dusty windowed certainty and spider-webbed almost.
I love, I hate this rock and roll the ladies and the lights
Ate all my flowers long ago but the roots came through
all right.
Whilst now my toast is the crossroads post, I hear just
out of sight,
That the Black Pick's found his Chaldean lamp
After years in a concentration camp.
But I fear he's still out on the ice
With his bagpipe mouth and his cup of crimson speiss.

Still, I've fulfilled a host of dreams for that I'll cry hurray
But it won't be long till I cast this song
In the jet-edged envelopes......

Pete Sinfield 1973

La Curtea Imparatului Rosu

King Crimson este centrul universului meu musical.

Fie ca ma indrept spre Bach fie ca o apuc catre Miles Davis, spre Rasarit sau spre apus, Miaza Noapte, Miaza Zi, Roza Vanturilor e centrata pe ghitara lui Robert Fripp si versurile lui Pete Sinfield.

Adolescentul ce am fost, adultul ce ma aflu sau batranul care va sa fiu a aflat, gaseste si va avea la indemana un univers nesfarsit ca intindere si de nesecat, univers ce prin note si cuvinte include atat pe Shakespeare cat si pe Omar Khayyam, pe Pitagora si Merlin, pe Mozart si John Coltrane pe Orwell si pe Flaubert pe Mahler pe Crist pe Rembrandt pe Rimbaud pe Confucius pe Bosch pe Mahomed pe Dostoievski pe Ibsen pe Paganini….dar in primul rand pe Imparatul Rosu.

Pete Sinfield l-a creat pe Imparatul Rosu avandu-l in minte pe Frederich al II lea de Suabia, rege al celor doua Sicilii si imparat al Sfantului Imperiu Romano-German, figura proeminenta a evului mediu ce a petrecut mult mai mult timp in biblioteca decat in sa, minte enciclopedica ce a influentat enorm evolutiile ulterioare in Europa mai ales prin efortul de integrare a culturii islamice cu cea europeana.
S-au scris si se mai pot scrie sute de carti despre Frederich al II lea. Ce au facut Fripp si Sinfield prin Imparatul Rosu a fost transformarea muzicii cu instrument amplificate electric din divertisment in act de cultura si nasterea unui univers din care nu poti si nici nu doresti sa mai iesi vreodata.

The Court Of The Crimson King

The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king.

The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim's door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
the funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.

The gardener plants an evergreen
Whilst trampling on a flower.
I chase the wind of a prism ship
To taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
The orchestra begin.
As slowly turns the grinding wheel
In the court of the crimson king.

On soft gray mornings widows cry
The wise men share a joke;
I run to grasp divining signs
To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow jester does not play
But gentle pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.