---

Arthur Symons - Danse Du Venteje
Work rating: Low

Her vices to her cling. 
There`s blood that stains her mouth; 
Suspense of sense, a sting 
On all her body`s drouth 
Of blood-red colouring. 

There`s madness in her eyes. 
Desire in her feet. 
What is this lusts and lies? 
Her desires that meet 
In rhythm of her feet. 

Backward her frame she throws, 
Her hands behind her back; 
Desire upon her grows; 
Her breasts, each a red rose, 
Know all her body knows; 
Her hair that`s raven-black 
Follows upon the track 
Of all the stars that rise, 
Rise with her sterile throes; 
And on her face the fire 
That wakes in her tiny feet 
Excites her with its heat, 
Expires in her desire. 

She dances like a flame, 
A wind-blown wanderer, 
As her breasts dance with her; 
The roses shed their shame, 
A shame that has no name; 

Always in her the soul 
Cries with her discontent; 
Swathed in her Orient scent, 
Her soul endures the whole 
Of her heart`s discontent. 
Her limbs insatiable 
Dance to the music`s strings, 
A dwarf arisen from hell 
Plays on: such evil things 
Draw the nerves out of strings. 
And, as her moons advance, 
She, moon-like, dares entrance 
Hell`s covered countenance 
With her unholy dance.
 
Her body quivers, she 
Quivers; she turns and turns 
On herself furiously; 
A fire within her burns 
Her flesh inordinately; 
Desire within her burns 
The flesh over her bones: 
She on herself returns 
As all her precious stones 
Shake, flame, among her zones; 
Her desires drown the night 
In the body`s appetite. 
Her sense before her swims, 
Her feet scarce touch the ground. 
The rhythm of her limbs 
As a lost star bedims 
The sense of hollow sound 
In the dull music drowned. 
Rigid her eyes as death. 
Rigid her ivory chin, 
She swoons upon her breath, 
She swoons upon her Sin, 
And still her body moves, 
The roses fall around; 
In the eyes of Herod, loves 
Turn hates, and his rings ring 
Upon his fingers thin. 
Salome, shuddering, 
Quivers, and falls a-heap 
As a tormented thing; 
Her breasts, while throes on throes 
Sting her, in fury leap; 
She, in her senses` mesh 
Feels in her writhing heels 
Stings of her naked flesh, 
Stings of the locust`s heat 
Burn on her burning flesh, 
She hears a voice that cries 
On her Adulteries 
Out of an open Pit 
Stark on the Infinite, 
Heard in the hush of the heat: 
She swoons in a senseless sleep.

Now are the torches lit. 
Tables are spread for the Feast; 
The spokes of Fortune`s wheels 
Turn in the void of Time. 
Herod, hot for his crime. 
Drunken and shrunken, reels. 
Herodias: “There sleeps the Beast.”
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.