On the path
to the promised land
three kings lay slain

Robbed of their gold
and stripped of their splendour
they lay
in a pool of blood in the rain
  
The shooting star
they followed
was a blazing red
Souls lost in passion
fuming in its bed
(their flares now lead
soul-searchers to hell)

A caravan
that passed by
camped by the dead
They built 3 shrines
and hung 3 bells
Pilgrims were fed
and scriptures were read

The incense
they carried
was traded for gold
and 3 sets of attire
of the noble fold

The remains
of these kings
now sit crowned
in these shrines,
wrapped in robes
of shining silk

Scepters in their arms
they listen and behold
their stories being told
and fables unfold