The gates are closed, the bolts are welded
|
they've left the red death far behind
|
in the abbey's deep seclusion
|
there's just beauty, there is wine
|
|
The external world is dying
|
death is raging in the shade
|
no time to think about the terror
|
let's celebrate the masquerade
|
|
But who's that stranger in the dark?
|
his vesture is dabbled in blood
|
his masque shows scarlet signs of pest
|
masque of the red death
|
|
The fete is held in seven clambers
|
triponds spread a gleaming light
|
glare and glitter, madman fashions
|
feverish dreams in the dead of night
|
|
The mighty clock strikes twelve, it's midnight
|
and the echoes fade away
|
the crowd becomes aware of a figure
|
dressed in cerements of the grave
|
|
but who's that...
|
|
Try to catch him, try to gasp him
|
try to seize and to unmask him
|
prince Prospero foams with rage
|
But he cries out
|
and his death-shout
|
took possession of the whole crowd
|
'cause the red death entered their cage
|
|
Darkness and decay, and the red death
|
holds dominion over all
|
|
-----------------
|
Masque Of The Red Death
|
| Stormwitch |
