2657
In the cruciate pavilion,
As golden paths
Are the silent corridors,
To silence commanded;
The walls of silk are blood red.
In the garden of the tower
Behind the wisteria screen,
Is ornate modesty made counterpoint
To an unveiled woman's power.
Of dark red are the blooms of wisteria.
In the pavilion of the master
Is the weight of fond magnificence
A shining,
And bright unshifting burden;
His tears were ever and are still, of red.
