The ninth day in the ninth month of the year: By the time I bloom, all others have died. Cold winds rise in Pan’s streets, wide and austere: A tempest of gold, an aureal tide. My glorious fragrance punctures the sky. Bright-yellow armor surrounds every eye. With disdainful pride, ten thousand swords spin To secure the grace of kings, to cleanse sin. A noble brotherhood, loyal and true. Who would fear winter when wearing this hue? “The King of Flowers,” Cogo Yelu said. Mata nodded.
