THREE CHARACTER CLASSIC

Though we are not frightened at a sunset
One is told of the lovely pinkish modular
Destruction of the world by fire:

Orange-blue tongues, devilish
Flashes caught across crystal
At the bottom of the glass. Glimpsed

At the end of the footpath leading to the house
Of fruit and snares where it debouches
Onto the wide road heading for the East gate,

That prospect we have well imagined.
Now, the burning world, the emperor
Calling for jars of Samytharite elucidating

Ghosts: knowledge is for mere epigones,
Not commentators. Heaven is a Chinese word.