Drapa

There's a drum in the dark

The smell of burning myrrh

I try to raise my body

With that certain kind of strain-

For I'm covered with mire

And I'm drowning in the mire

And with that last strain

I'm emerging to foul air...

When mine eyes are dazzled

By the funeral procession

Of a goddess-queen who

Changed her portico for a pyre-

Slaves all around the corpse

All clothed in sheer gold

One fat's still fanning

Musk and perfume to no nose...

Then the corpse's on the pyre with

The hundred slaves beheaded

Their torsos fill the gaps between

The treasures and the wood-pile -

And with a mighty groan

Upwards the flames lick

To mingle the bodies, the

Jewels and the mire...

Still the drum's in the dark

Still musk in the air

My feet won't touch no ground

And my yells don't reach the sound-

Then a demon with a noose

Swiftly breathes in mine ear:

"A reminder for your journey

Your feet do now touch ground!"

And down the noose draws...