Dance for me, dear minstrel of the moon,
Sing languidly, sweet flute of the lune.
Tressed in silver trains and sashed with gleaming stars,
Galaxies for your flowing mane, Princess of Mars.

White against red, like blood to linen cloth–
Such is your skin, as soft as a white moth:
A spot of whitewash, a drop of pure milk
That stains the heavy crimson sky with silk.

Descending from your ship of steel,
Your gaze in veils of iron concealed,
You step onto the sand of the Moon –
The first of foreigners in the land of Aün.

A grand procession seeps from the ships:
Brass, woodwinds, and pipes on their lips,
Maidens of braided coiffures and gowns,
Menservants bearing jewelry and crowns.

Lances, spears, percussion, and cheer,
The Universe revels in awe and fear.
Gonfalons, standards, colors, and banners:
Kings, lords, and men of all manners,

Gathered from every corner of this Realm,
With ships of all sizes, and captains at their helms,
To witness and celebrate a sacred union
Of two people, two nations, in a blessed fusion.

Aün and Imandi, two worlds made one,
A union, a tie, dare challenged by none.
The Moon and Mars now weaved with a loom
Of iron and silver–the bride and groom.

O Princess of Mars, allow me one last glance,
As the breeze whips your hair in a dance,
As your dress sways to a sweet lullaby,
As I whisper a final goodbye.

Though I’m unworthy, allow me this word,
I’ll dare to say it, though it sounds absurd:
I love you, o princess–a plain, simple love.
With my heart of hearts, like a tender dove.

Not a love of pain and lust,
Neither one of ashes and dust.
Though it’s rude, admit it I must,
Lest my strength be made to rust.

Go, dear princess. Take your prince’s hand;
Enter with his people, his heart, and his land.
For now is not the time to weep,
But to sing, twirl, dance, and leap.

A cheer erupts from the gathered crowd–
Ten thousand races, hands aloud;
Brass resound a hymn from Mars,
Pipes and drums echoing the stars.

With a forlorn gaze, I sigh and falter.
With quivering breath, I sadly whisper,
“Farewell, dear princess. May your years be prosperous,
And your love be stronger than a fortress.”

With one last look, I turn away,
Boarding my ship, the 'Evergray'.
Though I’ve no plans, I’ll return someday,
A visit to the Prince and Princess I will pay.

Life is like a feather,
Tossed around in ferocious weather.
Find that Rock and cling to it ever–
You'll be safe, O little fleeting feather.

Sweet the girl and tender her age,
She's too young for the fire's rage.
But, alas, the law still stands,
And punishment for her crime demands.

Little Oshichi, that greengrocer girl,
Her hands, restrain; and hair, unfurl.
She stands upright against the stake,
Weeping as she regrets her mistake.

She had fallen in love with a page,
While a fire had roared and raged.
As her house was burnt away,
Love, within her heart, gave way.

Entranced, enraptured, and captured with him,
Oshichi went forth on a fanciful whim.
Believing that it would bring them together,
She struck a flint and started a fire.

A clanging tocsin pierced the night,
"Me-gumi, hark! There's a fire to fight!"
A throng of ***** steeplejack boys
Rush to the scene with swaggering poise.

Oshichi now gazed in horror, aghast,
Watching as the fire spread fast–
Her dream of meeting her youthful lover
Set ablaze with burning desire.

Arrested, tried, and sentenced to suffer,
The judge, kind sir, tried his best to save her.
"Are you not 15?" he asked, worriedly.
"I'm 16, my lord," she answered meekly.

Bewildered and anxious, he asked yet again,
"Surely you're 15, young one, dear saint?"
She bowed her head and shed a tear.
"No... I'm 16," she answered with fear.

Cursing his fate, the judge had no choice.
He gave his sentence with a downcast voice:
"Yaoya Oshichi–what girl so tender–
Shall be burnt an arson offender."

Bound and burnt for want of love,
Oshichi lifts her gaze above.
Weeping as her smoke ascends,
She cries to heaven, its mercy lend.

At last, Oshichi succumbs to the fire,
Consumed by passion borne of desire.
Sweet the girl and bitter the flame,
As her lover cries out her name.

O lover, O muse, you strike me–abuse!
Your tender, graceful kisses–******!
Your words are greased with lies obtuse,
Oil enough to light a fuse.

I was born of pedigree,
Taught and raised with chivalry,
To, someday, be noble knight,
Of strong and loyal moral might.

Then, you came and caught my neck,
Breathing lust in tender pecks.
"Man of valor, lie with me.
Savor love with liberty…”

Strong with urge, driven by hate,
Lust-filled love–yes, satiate!
Your saintly face like holy art,
Too late! You are the Devil at heart.

Now I lie in grueling pain,
Body slain and spirit stained.
Repenting–pleading!–by blood and mercy,
That I might enter into life, though maimed.

I shiver with a nervous chill
As I stand incredibly still.
Dressed in black of silk, twice-pressed,
A rose of red upon my breast.

High King Alasdair lies at rest,
Pickled corpse dressed in solemn best.
Stone-faced priests in ritual vests
Offer up incense cakes to guests.

Silent is the Hall of Passing,
False the tears of those in mourning.
Every sigh a shrilling laugh,
Grief and pain all pre-choreographed.

Seven spiders and fourteen lice,
Coven of liars, lords of vice:
Every one enseated here,
Scheme and plot whilst stewing in fear.

Cosmic thread of lies enweaved,
******* sons and daughters conceived:
Fighting for the Starry Throne–
The sounds of war give pleasured moans.

As a Requiem starts to play,
All who are present bow to pray.
Great and grand Galactic Mass,
Liturgy for a blessed farce.

Past the ghastly Introitus,
"Kyrie Eleison!"–Have mercy on us.
Ships and drones now lie in wait,
Pistols, disablers, knives and fate.

I get up and say my prayers.
Leave this hall of **** betrayers.
As I close the door behind,
Shots now click and fire in kind.

I breathe a sigh: it's coming soon.
Power shifts like the waning moon.
Death and Hades at our door:
Seven-way galactic war.

Beware the snare of the Water Mare,
For she beholds bewitching beauty,
For she features effervescent flair
And a voluptuous vivacity.

The top of her head is as soft as grass,
That gently flows down in streams of glass.
Her ears droop low, hanging like willows,
Her cheeks stoop low, as soft as pillows.
Her eyes spark gold with glances that gleam
With a glittering, glamorous beam.
Her mouth is sweet with honey and grace;
Her tongue entreats a milky embrace.

Her neck is sturdy, as strong as oak,
Rugged yet silky–a pleasure to stroke.
Her nape is sweet and lovely to taste:
It waits to be savored with nary a haste.

Her mane flows down in torrents of dew,
Algae and weeds in a verdant hue.
Her tresses are weaved with ivy and vine,
And braids entwined with patterns divine.
The curves of her belly perform a dance,
Her outlines arching in an entrancing prance,
Her rumpsides flow and ebb like a tide,
Swishing her tail in a billowing glide.

She sings: “Do come, do come, dear one,
Dear fawn, sweet child, brave gallant son.
Allow my waters to soothe and heal,
While your fears and worries conceal.
Rest, my liege; your pleasure I seek.
I am but your servant, submissive and meek.
Master, I’m yours; I give you my all–
I am at your mercy, your beckon, your call.
My waters are restless; they yearn for your touch.
They ripple and swirl; they long for that much.
My waters run deep, for they are my crown;
Now come: in passion, be captured, be drowned!”

How many a stallion allured by her call,
Studhorses and steeds–the strongest of all.
Stout-hearted, steadfast, and standing tall,
In love for this mistress of pleasure they fall.

Her words flow down their ears like oil;
Their blood begins to simmer and boil.
With vigor aroused, and passion aflame,
They rush to her, eager to play with her game.
She opens her maw: they’re entering in.
Her lips draw apart: they plunge into sin.
Beneath her folds lie the mouth of a beast:
It carnally drools at the sight of a feast.

She tears them apart, from limb to limb,
And rends their flesh according to whim.
She cracks their skulls, and crushes their bones,
Savoring their screams with warm, pleasured moans.
She opens their barrels and rips out their hearts,
Whilst shredding apart their masculine parts.
She draws out their bowels and strings up their guts;
Their corpses she plays with and lovingly ruts.

Her waters are sullied with dark male blood;
Her body is stained by a carnal flood.
She bathes in their gore, engaging in vore,
For she is all but a sadistic *****.

And when her lust for blood has abated,
And her craving for flesh satiated,
She washes herself and cleans up the grime,
Then grinds up their bones–no trace of her crime.
To purge her waters of poison and vice,
She quickly performs a small sacrifice:
She slaughters a dove, discharges the blood,
And draws out a circle upon the mud.

She neighs three times, and stomps on the ground,
Invoking the goddess to which she is bound:
“Ishtar, dear Ishtar, cruel mistress of love!
I humbly beseech you to hear from above:
Please cleanse my water with milk from your breast,
For I am your servant, at your behest…”
As soon as she ends this quick little prayer,
Her waters turn pure–no sign of her lair.

Returning to her waters without a care,
She resumes her role as the Water Mare–
A flawless beauty and a lover divine:
Her passion and power are as sweet as wine.
But deep beneath her perfect exterior,
Lies a filthy and corrupt interior:
A lecherous witch and blood-lusting *****,
A flower of death and lover of gore.

Beware the snare of the Water Mare,
For she beholds bewitching beauty.
They never escape who enter her lair:
They wander, lost souls, for eternity.