—First Book of Kings

And the youth plays for the mad king,

And annihilates the merciless night,

And loudly summons triumphant dawn

And smothers the specters of fright.

And the king speaks kindly to him:

“In you, young man, burns a marvelous flame,

And for such a medicine

I will give you my daughter and my kingdom.”

And the king’s daughter stares at the singer,

She needs neither songs nor the marriage crown;

Her soul is full of grief and resentment,

Nevertheless, Michal wants David.

She is paler than death; her mouth is compressed,

In her green eyes, frenzy;

Her garments gleam and with each motion

Her bracelets ring harmoniously.

Like a mystery, like a dream, like the first mother, Lilith …

She speaks without volition:

“Surely they have given me drink with poison

And my spirit is clouded.

My shamelessness! My humiliation!

A vagabond! A brigand! A shepherd!

Why do none of the king’s courtiers,

Alas, resemble him?

But the sun’s rays … and the stars at night …

And this cold trembling …”