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 ona a death carpet it victoriously disappears in the black room
