The princess is sad . . . what can be ailing the princess?
Sighs escape her strawberry lips,
which have lost their laughter, which have lost their color.
The princess is pale on her golden chair,
the keyboard of her resonant harpsichord is mute;
and, forgotten in a vase, a flower swoons.
The garden is peopled by the triumph of the peacocks.
Talkative, the duenna says banal things,
and, dressed in red, the jester pirouettes.
The princess doesn’t laugh, the princess doesn’t react;
in the Eastern sky the princess pursues
the vague dragonfly of a vague hopeful dream.
Can she be thinking about the prince of Golconda or China,
or the one who has halted his silvery coach
to see the sweetness of light with his own eyes?
Or about the king of the Isles of Fragrant Roses,
or the one who possesses the bright diamonds,
or the proud owner of the pearls of Ormuz?
Alas! The poor princess with the rose lips
wishes to be a swallow, wishes to be a butterfly,
to have light wings, to fly beneath the sky,
to travel to the sun on the luminous ladder of a beam,
to greet the lilies with the verses of May,
or to be lost in the wind over the thunder of the sea.
She no longer cares for her palace, nor the silver spinning wheel,
nor the magical falcon, nor the scarlet-clad jester,
nor the unanimous swans on the azure lake.
And the flowers are sad for the flower of the court;
the jasmines of the East, the water lilies of the North,
the dahlias of the West, and the roses of the South.
Poor blue-eyed princess!
She’s a captive of her gold, she’s a captive of her tulle,
in the marble cage of the royal palace,
the proud palace policed by guards,
watched over by a hundred blacks with their hundred halberds,
a greyhound that never sleeps, and a colossal dragon.
¡Oh quién fuera hipsipila que dejó la crisálida!
(La princesa está triste. La princesa está pálida)
¡Oh visión adorada de oro, rosa y marfil!
¡Quién volara a la tierra donde un príncipe existe
(La princesa está pálida. La princesa está triste)
más brillante que el alba, más hermoso que abril!
—¡Calla, calla, princesa—dice el hada madrina—,
en caballo con alas, hacia acá se encamina,
en el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor,
el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte,
y que llega de lejos, vencedor de la Muerte,
a encenderte los labios con su beso de amor!