Hungarian waltz

Silent and languorous,

slow and frail,

the waltz drifts lazily

off like a dream.

It has the sweetness and poetry

of Asia.

It's like a fleeing breath of flowers

in the night.

It is like a white-winged dove

in the branches

or a cloud drifting

where the wind blows it.

A movement of the bow,

and it off in a tumult,

bounding with pride

and delight.

It becomes a dizziness

wiping out everything,

a hunt, wild intoxication

mixed with sobs.

The waltz starts again,

sweet as a dream,

and continues like a shiver of breeze

along reeds in the water.