Fandango
Not
Janissary music!
Quiet,
you march-laden rhythms!
Quiet,
dammit, musicians!
The female Circassians, female Circassians
just
let them come in!
In they shall dance on dainty small feet
to
muted music
from
distant guitars.
Strumming, humming, caressing sounds,
smiling, reclining, beguiling sounds,
sensually
sweet:
Fandango!
Sombre-red tinge to the vibrant-light dance,
shimmering long veil that silver clouds stroke,
soft-waving arms that so softly entwine
in
the dance!
A small red ear, a small white finger
and feet quick as lightning and soundless
in
sable-fur cover’s black silky hair. –
And tinkling jingling of jewels and stones.
And
cheeks. And eyes.
Fandango!
Zerlina, my maiden, your throat is so red,
your
eye so black,
but moist is your eye, Zerlina.
Zerlina, my maiden, your lips are red,
your
cheek so round,
but pale is your cheek, Zerlina!
Zerlina, my maiden, your skin is so soft,
your
mouth is so fresh.
But – why does it quiver, Zerlina?
‘Ah, master, autumn will soon be upon us
and
Persia’s rose-petals will soon fall.
And the dew weep on the carnation’s mouth,
and
the leaves wither, oh master.’
Zerlina, my maiden, my thanks for this dance
and
your word. – Now leave me awhile.
All withers. It withers,
it
withers, it withers,
the world, it withers, and roses and women,
my body and all of its trembling nerves
wither!
And time, it steals so slowly past me,
and the hours pass by to dig me a grave.
I dare not think – I dare not live.
Dare
not die!
And in this stillness, so night-deep and deathly,
like
the plover’s call comes the endless murmur:
It withers, it withers,
it
with...
Music, music, Janissary music,
the
great Chinese drum!
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