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.