An empty theater. On stage is dying
A player according to his art's demands
The dagger in his neck. His lust exhausted
A final solo courting the applause.
And not one hand. In a box, as empty
As the theater, a forgotten robe
The silk is whispering what the player screams.
The silk turns red, the robe grows heavy
From the player's blood that pours out while he dies
In the chandelier's luster that blanches the scene
The forgotten robe drinks empty the veins of
The dying man who now resembles no one but himself
Neither lust nor terror of transfiguration left
His blood a colored stain of no return
(Heiner Müller trans. Carl Weber)