Creaking, with a strong smell of beeswax, yellow,

The stairs are cramped—walking on the wall-side,

You can put your shoe onto the tread crosswise,

But on the bannister-side it’s nearly too narrow.

The boar’s-head is alive, with a huge shadow—

At first, fangs only, but then he enlarges,

Moves his snout, sniffing the vault of the stairway

Where the light fades, and dusty air trembles.

Mother carries a flickering light down the staircase.

As her tall figure comes down, a rope at her robe’s waist,

Her shadow creeps up the vault to where the boar’s head is:

And so she struggles, alone, with the menacing beast.