(the highest seats reserved for select individuals above the common audiences in English theatres are called "Gods. " "Les Enfants du Paradis", a French movie in 2 parts referenced this idea.

今日自分がエルダースクロール オンラインをログインし、暇つぶしとしてvalenwoodのジャングルを散策しながらクエストと苦戦する途中Bandari Trading Postというカジート行商人の集まりのキャンプ場を辿り着いた。
そこの露天屋台の列の隣に舞台劇を演じる笛吹のwoodelf(森のエルフ）と踊るカジート（ネコ獣人）とその演奏と演舞を黙って見送るカジートがいました。

この景色が心に深い印象を残りました。
エルフの楽器はパンフレットとも言う。ギリシャ神話の「パン」という牧人、音楽、荒野、そして宇宙の全部を体現する神が作った楽器は由来という人もいる。
パンの学生となり、葡萄酒（ワイン）、精神の自由と愛を表す神はディオニュソス、オリエントから輸入した神の説もあります。
そのディオニュソスを祀る演劇と音楽の儀は「Dionysian Dithyramb」とも言う。
ギリシャ人に対してエキゾチックな拍子、熱を帯びた自己表現のための合唱、匂う香、スパイスを入れた酒やワイン。そして何よりは音楽。その音楽は悲劇「tragedyーー羊の悲鳴の歌」の由来とも言う。
何より自分は出囃子と踊り子の偽物の真実を目視するのか、

出囃子と踊り子は『自分』と言う真実に見える偽物を見るのか。
その観劇と出演の境界を人々に忘れる事ができるのは「Dithyramb」の儀です。
MMOでこれを見えるとは。。。
その感動を形にして残るのため、この詩を作ったです。

Chapter 0 ---Les Enfants du Paradis

to the haunghty lords in their lofty seats above the clouds of trouble;
the pervasive silence is their stage,
actors an eyesore, though for their pleasure they speak
and sorrow and woes be to them who find the listeners,
as the plaintive pretenders fumble and forget, the lengthy or awkward lines,
beneath them, the face wild and sweaty, in miscomprehension,
but nodding,
so to while each secret eternity away, hieing the divines dignity
that through their ticket bought by the hour, as the usher counts dawn from the Sun---dawk shall be breaking, no more;
in joy, the panflute yells and sells,
joyous are the shallow gods facing the contemplative crowd
in illness, the panflute swells and dwells,
forever golden but with secret, a coinage; the panflute drives
the seer to be with the stage, the seeker to be with the wine;
the actors to be service of words, the audience their disservice
who is the thinker? who is the song?
who is the dancer, accompanying every tone,
but to every loud-speaker, she is forever
uncomprehending, a baffoon.
bless the tongue of the good poet;
let it be forever like cold desert, parched, never satisfied of its reservoir
and though black grapes grow, as if on brushes in the sand--
sand cold as corpse brews but the flavour of fever, not alcohol
unwarming sea-water parboiled, devoid is the essence
of weed or fishes.
the panflute ceases, as "mute hero-satyrs withdrew from abandoned stage"*1
"each to their way, own dissolution, in the eternal mountain, "
lose masters overthrown of their age,

drunken slave to the wine-drunken ocean, with perfume lulling to yet more forgetful sleep
as all worthy dead now drink the black soup, how many more seeds?
in the wet sand, which was once pale,
now grew black with joy, emulsified, and stale
and far in distance surges the waving blackness,
the sound without stars.

the black grape thin, the black grape ripe;
the black grape of valenwood; never has it been green; tasted wine
but bitter as the ineribriation, the faux elven incantation,
the hallowed celebration, in hollow-hearted devotion,
to or against? the manfold but one, the jubilation of the joyous Lorkhan.
singers of green sing, the loom is doom, the verily horned great God, Were-Hunter--- Pan!
who is the singer? who is the music?
who is the dancer, accompanying every tone,
that by elven might and lore one cannot understand?
the pan-flute plays, the pan-flute whines.
the pan-flute dies----out.
the voice of God, dissipating...till it reaches the Other Side.

Penitent, upon the bough the Thief is hung,
Empty as void are His golden sinewed Hands,
The Wild Elf tells no tales, the dead has no tongue.
Only to music's servitude, their undead fealty bound.
In Tower fashioned out of deathless earthen-bones,

the sorrowful spirit of Tragedy echoing, the Shepherd's Song.
Pentitent, the Sword hung,
upon a thread of moth silk
to end the Ash-Golden Immortal King,
Mortal are the words the golden slaves sing,
Mortal, are the Love; born of the Golden Skin.
Golden, White then Golden, frail and drifting
The Tower of vines in the Sand.
Who is to find the missing elven Man?

the Wild elves dead, with no tale to tell.
The nonce their ears “we shall, we shall”
though the ancient Northfolk and their slave-bands,
cold and dead, conquered halls made of elven stone,
under Sky's blue magic, the star-lit thrones,
stolen lore and secrets, blue eye-gems plucked,
each from a dead Ayleid Elf's bone,
petty Lords of mortal concern, to their own masters
mannish though, not elven, does still sing,
as the Spiders weave their webs in the forgotten ceiling,
the Song of the Coming and Coming, the Eternal Death of the King.
as the moth aflutter with adder-scales do their ancient singers blind,
fluttering alien and not elven, but of demi-elven mind.
“mortal, mortal, is not dead"
"slip in thy footstep, Golden serects;
unbind what binds, Love, triumph;
Vines!"
blue are the gems that fell from the Sky,
that lit the cloistered halls, in darkness the Saints
of moth rejoice in the web of ancestor's silk,
till they become as white and pale as the spider's
shining goosamer thread,
blue are the gems that are set in stone,
the dead Aleyid eyes, seeing without sight
the mortal mortal sing their immortal mortal song.

green is the jungle that retreats, green was the heart,
though in red mud He dwelled with drunk women, retreated the All-Mighty God,
dead murmurs of trees and bushes, the crying creek,
the sage-birds in their Perch, the crystal fishes in inky streams.
dead was the golden bloom, haloing so suffusive above the canopy,
the red heaven is dyed to sink. oblivion. dyed to sink.

the green recedes, to Pan cedes
and so as in green grass,
night-shades and bitter-green let go of feud,
and relent jealous lovers to poisoned unlife,
and allow the Mortal King once again,
to fill his empty Cup, to sing, to sing;
as the land joyously dancing into virtuous ill.
woe betides; those who pause to think.
what is the music, what are the notes?
who holds the Cup, and in Whom we revel?
Red is the Adamatine Eye,
Red is the Star.
Red is the Sign,
Empty is the Cup.
of the Ruddy Man.
cold is his reign, his legion commands,
let sky be Blue, or white as the dead drifting sand.
Red is the razor, redder the ink.
Red pens the Hour of Ruddy Man.
Red is the Star,
Red is the Sign,
Empty is the Cup,
Red is the Stolen Adamatine,
four-cornered and reigning none,
cold and forked stretching the Dragon's Tongue.
golden are the skin of his slaves and knaves,
golden like the heated sand of mid-day.
the sands that linger not still, but wish
and while themselves away, in waste.

Does Yellow come? Does Yellow come?
Skin so old and chapped,
singing for the ancient King;
flax and linen wrapping, yellow-sap enbalming.
Does Yellow come? Does Yellow come?
as gold turns yellow,
and feather to dust.
Who is the Yellow-robed,
Prophet empty-handed and his own King?
the jeering and cheering crowd,does not understand,
The actors stare in craven heart, filled with wind-blown yellow sand.
sand cold as corpse brews the hottest ague
boiling red sea-water frozen, devoid is the essence
of ancient woods and their wood-working fishermen.
"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band."*2
Red turning Yellow, Yellow turning Red.
Orange, the yellow Gout.
Orange is the Star that once lived, now dead.

between World and Word, a Lasting
minute. between Word and Sword, a snake-Tongue.

*1 "London" by Dr Samuel Johnson
(public domain)

With warbling eunuchs fill a licens'd stage,
And lull to servitude a thoughtless age.
Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold?
What check restrain your thirst of power and gold?
Behold rebellious virtue quite o’erthrown;
Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives, your own.

ver 68-73, retrieved from wikisource

*2 "King in Yellow" by Chambers

"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band
Are in the Prophets' Paradise to stand,
Alack, I doubt the Prophets' Paradise,
Were empty as the hollow of one's hand."

chapter "The Prophets' Paradise"
opening verse

/////

original v0.0
"
between World and Word, a Lasting
minute. between Word and Sword, a snake-Tongue. "

to the haunghty lords in their lofty seats above the clouds of trouble;

the pervasive silence is their stage,

actors an eyesore, though for their pleasure they speak

and sorrow and woes be to them who find the listeners,

as the plaintive pretenders fumble and forget, the lengthy or awkward lines,

beneath them, the face wild and sweaty, in miscomprehension,

but nodding,

so to while each secret eternity away, hieing the divines dignity

that through their ticket bought by the hour, as the usher counts dawn from the Sun---dawk shall be breaking, no more;

in joy, the panflute yells and sells,

joyous are the shallow gods facing the contemplative crowd

in illness, the panflute swells and dwells,

forever golden but with secret, a coinage; the panflute drives

the seer to be the stage, the seeker to be the wine;

the actors to be service of words, the audience their disservice

who is the thinker? who is the song?

who is the dancer, accompanying every tone,

but to every loud-speaker, she is forever

uncomprehending, a baffoon.

bless the tongue of the good poet;

let it be forever like cold desert, parched, never satisfied of its reservoir

and though black grapes grow, as if on brushes in the sand--

sand cold as corpse brews but the flavour of fever, not alcohol

unwarming sea-water parboiled, devoid is the essence

of weed or fishes.

the panflute ceases, as "mute hero-satyrs withdrew from abandoned stage"

"each to their way, own dissolution, in the eternal mountain, "

lose masters overthrown of their age,

drunken slave to the wine-drunken ocean, with perfume lulling to yet more forgetful sleep

as all worthy dead now drink the black soup, how many more seeds?

in the wet sand, which was once pale,

now grew black with joy, emulsified, and stale

and far in distance surges the waving blackness,

the sound without stars.

the black grape thin, the black grape ripe;

the black grape of valenwood; never has it been green,

but bitter as the ineribriation, the faux elven incantation,

the hallowed celebration, in hollow-hearted devotion,

to or against? the manfold but one, the jubilation of the joyous Lorkhan.

singers of green sing, the loom is doom, the verily horned great God ---Hunter, Pan!

who is the singer? who is the music?

who is the dancer, accompanying every tone,

that by elven might and lore one cannot understand?

the pan-flute plays, the pan-flute whines.

the pan-flute dies----out.

the voice of God, dissipating...till it reaches the Other Side.

Penitent, upon the bough the Thief is hung,

Empty as void are His golden sinewed Hands,

The Wild Elf tells no tales, the dead has no tongue.

Only to music's servitude, their undead fealty bound.

In Tower fashioned out of deathless earthen-bones,

the sorrowful spirit of Tragedy echoing, the Shepherd's Song.

Pentitent, the Sword hung,

upon a thread of moth silk to end the Immortal King,

Mortal are the words the golden slaves sing,

Mortal, are the Love; born of the Golden Skin.

Golden, White then Golden, frail and drifting

The Tower of vines in the Sand.

Who is to find the missing elven Man?

the Wild elves dead, with no tale to tell.

The nonce their ears “we shall, we shall”

though the ancient Northfolk and their slave-bands,

cold and dead, conquered halls made of elven stone,

under Sky's blue magic, the star-lit thrones,

stolen lore and secrets, blue eye-gems plucked,

each from a dead Ayleid Elf's bone,

petty Lords of mortal concern, to their own masters

mannish though, not elven, does still sing,

as the Spiders weave their webs in the forgotten ceiling,

the Song of the Coming and Coming, the Eternal Death of the King.

as the moth with adder-scales do their ancient singers blind,

alien and not elven, but of demi-elven mind.

“mortal, mortal, is not dead"

"slip in thy footstep, Golden serects;

unbind what binds, Love, triumph;

Vines!"

blue are the gems that fell from the Sky,

that lit the cloistered halls, in darkness the Saints

of moth rejoice in the web of ancestor's silk,

till they become as white and pale as the spider's

shining goosamer thread,

blue are the gems that are set in stone,

the dead Aleyid eyes, seeing

the mortal mortal sing their immortal mortal song.

green is the jungle that retreats, green was the heart,

though in red mud He dwelled with drunk women, retreated the All-Mighty God,

dead murmurs of trees and bushes, the crying creek,

the sage-birds in their Perch, the crystal fishes in inky streams.

dead was the golden bloom, haloing so suffusive above the canopy,

the red heaven is dyed to sink.

the green recedes, to Pan cedes

as in green grass,

night-shades and bitter-green let go of feud,

and relent jealous lovers to poisoned unlife,

and allow the Mortal King once again,

to fill his empty Cup, to sing, to sing;

as the land joyously dancing into virtuous ill.

woe betides; those who pause to think.

what is the music, what are the notes?

who holds the Cup, and in Whom we revel?

Red is the Adamatine Eye,

Red is the Star.

Red is the Sign,

Empty is the Cup.

of the Ruddy Man.

cold is his reign, his legion commands,

let sky be Blue, or white as the dead drifting sand.

Red is the razor, redder the ink.

Red pens the Hour of Ruddy Man.

Red is the Star,

Red is the Sign,

Empty is the Cup,

Red is the Stolen Adamatine,

four-cornered and reigning none,

cold and forked stretching the Dragon's Tongue.

golden are the skin of his slaves and knaves,

golden like the heated sand of mid-day.

the sands that linger not still, but wish

and while themselves away, in waste.

Does Yellow come? Does Yellow come?

Skin so old and chapped,

singing for the ancient King,

Does Yellow come? Does Yellow come?

as gold turns yellow,

and feather to dust.

Who is the Yellow-robed,

Empty-handed Prophet and his own King?

the jeering and cheering crowd,does not understand,

The actors stare in craven heart, filled with yellow sand.

sand cold as corpse brews the hottest ague

boiling red sea-water frozen, devoid is the essence

of ancient woods and their fishermen.

"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band."

Red turning Yellow, Yellow turning Red.

Orange.

Orange is the Star that once lived, now dead.

/