The Imaginary Dancers
Delicate as flowers they have come,
Slim figures sculpted out of gold,
Becoming iridescent in a feeble moon…They are here
In melodious flight through the shimmering wood.
Mauves, blues and the nocturnal rose
Weave a way below their surging dance.
What veils of perfume drape their gilded fingertips!
But the smooth blue sky is leafless in this barren grove
While the shallow lake offers little light, laid out
Like some deathly reservoir of age-old dew
Where flowering silence reaches up…They are here again
In melodious flight through the shimmering wood.
Their hands grace the adored chalice;
A glint of moonlight rests on consecrated lips
And under friendly myrtle the drowsy movement
Of their wondrous arms lovingly undoes
Their tawny and caressing hair…But some of them,
Less in thrall to rhythm and distant harps,
Move with secret steps towards the shrouded lake
To drink the lilies’ dew immersed in pure forgetfulness.
translated by Ian Britton & Michael Grant
