*1（ポーの『赤死病の仮面』より）
the lynx is pouncing,
to the beats of braziers and ensconced torches.
silver-haired she-lioness
in the shadow of which? the Purple, the Violet, or the Sable…
the westmost accoutremented and furnished turreted-chamber?
for what reason does she dance? the ebony clock had already struck 
times more than 12. why is there darkness,
over the radiant pool of mute, red and sore love-tokens of life.
the silver-glazed high-heel steps do a whirl. a ripple upon ground-hung red opiate-vapours.
in the seventh chamber there is to be a profound black ocean.
the prosperous King and his legion of buffoons and maimed men lie dead.
the maid does her waltz in fantastic evolution, her legs are slender and she is tall.
like a silver-haired lynx hunching her back
ready to strike. towards all directions she knows.
among the sea of Red-Death, the Dead Ocean, in the castellated-abbey.
in the red-doomed red-chamber… why does the sound of nomadic erhu flows,
when courtly organ plays no more? who gave death life?
the maid mopes up the blood with a mop, with its head made of bolts of yellow imperial-silk. (dreaming silk from their private emperor-pillows)
regardless of the gathering circular houses of bones on the red western dead-shore full of spider lilies.
she drives that sentiment-embroidered and lineage-patterned silky mop eastwards.
mopping up the black cold congealed blood of dead western kings, lords, virtuosos, wonderbuilders and -workers and philosophy-dreamers.
and naturally wrung the golden-rag dry into a pail by the last window's side.
the blood drips in happy cadence, swaying to some gusts from the window.
falling each one by one into the mystic bluepainted inky ceramic pail.
a black western intoxication of imported grapes held in ceramic vessel to drink
the longest clock-hand of the yonder ebony clock stopped forever at 12
that was her "World"…Izayoi Sakuya.
death is dead. there is yet more left to human. destiny, eastwards.
the shadow of that castellated red-chamber of Prospero should yield both entry and egress. the bolted windows and doors. (the bolts…that hold silk within their frame…for their emperor-pillows)
cannot stop the rays of beautiful orange Sunet flowing into it along with golden dust dancing in midair.
the lynx will clean up the mess of ancients obediently like a sheep,
and hang that piece of purple rag torn from the unbroken
Imperial habiliment-robe once belonged to European sovereigns.
from the battlement like a lady's secret laundry or that painfully shorn-shadow from the flying-rogue Peter Pan.
her Romanian master waits outside with perhaps one or two or three Mongolian steeds? they go promptly eastwards with foreboding ravens and ominous golden clouds.
I do not know the history of Romanians.
But I can only think of happy eastern things.
perhaps human can fly when they can stop time by stopping the longest hand in the silver timepiece they carry. the time that must stay forever at the western horizon of Sunset.
and fly with night-bats, eastern dragons, flower-knowledge and some fairies heart full of fancies, to a warmer and more southern clime where the song was its origin.
thus passed the hours of glory, the revelry of western Eld no more.
though we eastern knights were set by our recollections of the good-old
to find that misty and elusive eastern El-Dorado.
but for now the castle is shrouded in a red-mist, the lynx awaits her master to examine like a marshal the strange customs of those old fallen foreign lords of buffoons.
in the mansion that once held the magnificent "Masque of Red Death"