Для electric gypsy (у вас уже не 19-ое, но у меня еще-еще; с днем рождения от твоей Сибил, которая очень-очень-очень тебя любит)
When the velvety-violet night descended on Earth
Hans was sleeping with the quilt tucked in
and dreaming the dreams of roundelays and mirth,
his head was a swarm of chaos, unknown to sin.
In the hazy darkness came creatures,
the shapes which lightened faces with honey
so Hans will discern their pale features,
they came for him, not for jewellery, not for money.
Hans woke up when they touched his bed
and stared into their faces, glowing in the dark,
he blinked and sighed and shook his head,
but they told him to hurry before sings the lurk.
They taught him a ritual spider-dance,
played hide-and-seek in the hollow of an oak,
put him in an timber-coated trance
and crowned him with the ginger cloak.
When the creatures returned him to his home,
he called himself no Hans, but the Piper,
he vowed that from now on he will be alone,
but his touch will be swift as one of the viper,
so he called for his bowl and for fiddlers three,
and they brought his pipe so the Whistler he’ll be,
and now he needs no rest, no page, no lyre,
as the song is a ripped out of his head shred of fire.