Opera IX
      The Triumph of the Death


  Born in the Grave
  
The mournful sound of a bell, people in prayer.
My body abandoned in the solitude of the wood, imprisoned
by the rags, compelled to suffer from the frostry contact with
the ground.
In the unbroken silence I'm seized with shuddering.
I turn into matter and then into dust.
She flew up.
An imperceptible ascent in the knowledge dimension,
she penetrates the darkest maze of the infinite universe.
My ignorant body will never know the eternity formulas.
Uh, I'm still, She's fluid. I'm frozen. She's wrapped up in the
warmest blows of knowledge, she flies free.
The secret will be revealed to her: the ingenious one.


  The Red Death

The rooms are crowded the dances begin in the euphory of the
party, the orgy frenetically takes place but the last room, the
black one, is lonely.
Solitary presence: an ebony clock: the mute echo of the pauses
after every lugubrious stroke.
The black walls eclipse the room, the band interrupts an euphoric
melody, wide open eyes under the mask are seeking after a veil of
certitude, terro and uneasiness in the hearts, the strokes stop,
the music plays again the dances get livelier, a playful shouting
spreads somebody has forgotten, to someone else if's only a fain
memory, time goes cruelly by.
The pendulum-clock strucks midnight, the pauses are painfullly
endless, the dances stop again, twelve long strokes call the
attention to a lugubrious figure tall and slender wrapped in
a sudarium.
The mask represents the red death.
The bloodstained cloak, the broad forehead, a still corpse's face
its glassy stare. It slowly moves with regal bearings as if it's
stirred by a cold wind and passing it sows a cursed horror.
Pestilence among the masters, pestilence among the servants,
pestilence among all the guests.
An on a death carpet it victoriously disappears in the black room.