It doesn’t start yet.
My moving gets going
after the music sets in.

Just look over here,
the beginning is insignificant. Beginnings
are that way. Something will come, you know it.

Look at me: what you call dance
has its genesis in a horrifying rage
that erases exhaustion.

See what I can do: dances of swans
and of doves, seven treasures, fairies with slim
waists and a gigantic hoop-skirt.
What I consider delightful – when I would dance delight -
leaps high and has its girth.

See too, what doesn’t interest me: Everything
that, due to one’s faults,
runs its heartless course.
Tragedies can be foreseen.
I don’t train for that.

The progression of steps familiar to you
were worked out, yesterday, by me.

We were sitting without pleasure.
My talk was improvised.

 

Copyright © Silke Scheuermann. Translation copyright © GSW