Monday, August 08, 2005





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)