Night of the Sabbath

Night of the Sabbath 

Sweet, sweet, come and hear

these flames that beat. The whorls

     compete. The trees declaim.

               Devils stream from holes

          beneath: sweet, my sweet,

the little doves caught in claws

above. O, who is that? Whose ghosts

          appear? Our priest so dear

riding chanticleer and singing

with her awful tones a sound

          to liquify our bones. O, my dear,

stand clear, the sorcerer comes near.

His arm pulls forth a vulture's wing

that cuts the air and piles on smoke

his altar round. Smells and bells

against deep vats pulsing at our

backs: our hair's charged yellow

to black. Now the moans blare on.

The trumpets blast: the day of wrath

to come. Wotan strokes Magdalena's

          breasts, calls for the orgy dance.

Robbers rise from graves. Goats

revanche. Lamb, lamb, O, lamb,

a place for us beneath your embers!

          Sweet, sweet, we die in bliss.

[Fantastique]