Ballade for Margarete von Waldeck
Cold white flakes cover a barren field;
The old Queen wishes her child fair,
As snow, her blood-red lips not sealed
By selfish pride, her straight black hair,
Dark as ebony frames or an Arabian mare.
Marked as a witch by the crow in her keep,
She hems the gown her daughter will wear.
But who will wake her from her sleep?
Her husband finds that time has healed
The wound of her loss to his royal lair.
His new lady’s soul is soon revealed
In her glassy self-regarding stare,
And her disregard of his daughter’s care.
At least he will never see her weep,
And to hold such beauty is truly rare.
But who will wake her from her sleep?
In beauty, youth too has power to wield,
The strength to crush with a haughty glare;
But the huntsman before whom she kneeled,
Was forced to see her heart stripped bare.
His pity freed her from the deadly snare,
It rose for her as a fish from the deep,
And spoke of whom she must beware.
But who will wake her from her sleep?
O Evil Queen, the happy trumpets blare;
Your corpse lies crumpled in a heap;
Snow-white has done what you did dare.
But who will wake her from her sleep?
No comments:
Post a Comment