On Tuesday, November 24

by

Horacio Quiroga


On Tuesday, November 24, we

danced the romantic gavotte.

The ladies offered

smiles on the shoulder , the satin of the tails

shook the reflections of the dress;

the silks repeated their stanzas

in the cadence of such a silent orchestra;

your eyes were lost in the shape

of the green Japanese vases

and in the snow of blood from your mouth

the country of a fan was burning.

The mist of your doilies fainted

in the infinite languor of the step.

Behind the gentle arcade of violas,

we heard a voice with a sweet accent on

the blissful November night. The

pierrot was inspired by sweet romances,

caressing with his narrow forehead

the satin skin of her cream glove.



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