He flies high above,
Casting a colossal shadow,
And frightens the land-runners,
Whom shrewdly eludes his sharp eyes.
Like an eagle he soars,
Like a comet he shoots,
A golden blaze of showering gold,
Of a harmonious rainbow,
Trails behind,
Leaving their mark,
In the cloudless skies.
He flaps his wings,
Once,
Twice,
Third time's the charm.
He goes up, up, up,
Then plummets down in a perfect arch,
And begins to lazily drift in the breeze.
He is the king,
And as he flies,
He is victorious,
Invincible,
Omnipresent,
Watching his subjects,
His friends,
His family,
So far below,
On the soft blades,
Of green grasses and daisies,
Covered by the shade of the berry bushes.
And as the great blazing star,
Of which we call the sun,
Slowly melts into the edge of the world,
Splashing the skies with one last burst of pure light,
All is silent,
Until darkness pounces,
And the envious moon arises.
Now, it is time for even the mighty king,
To swoop down onto the valley,
Of the sweet grass,
To dream of many dreams,
Until he awakens again,
To flick off the morning dew,
Because as the sun rises,
So does our mighty soarer,
Dragonalia.