The ring turns round
And the dancers spin,
Tumultuous and ignorant
Of the flames that burn
Outside their elegant windows.
Feathers royal and bells of silver
Whistle through the torch-light
And overturned goblets
Release their contents onto the stone.
Colorful masks fade into blurs
For the dancers care not
Of their bursting hearts and aching feet.
The flames creep beneath the oaken door
And lick the dangling tapestries
Like a grinning wave of hunger.
The scorching flames leap and catch
The nimble feet of the dancers,
Igniting fragrant silk
That crackles golden
And gleams like a crown
Beset with iridescent rubies.
The blaze climbs their tireless figures
Till their eyes are blinded
And they twirl round flaming
Like a wreath of scarlet of ghosts.
The livid garments of the masquerade
Fragment and fall away
Until the brilliant and oblivious dancers
Crumble and collapse
Into unmoving mounds
Of blackened and choking ash.