if even for a second I don’t

toe the line with the bat of your eye.

But this can never be for my one,

my sweetest joy is to serve you.

First Sister:

You stupid kitchen wench, not worth

the flogging you’d get from the whip.

Cinderella:

I’m always at your feet. I could

kiss your hand, that gentle hand,

the one that never strikes me

save for rightful punishment.

With your eyes, you regard me

like the sun. And I am the soil

that thrives on its merciful kiss,

on which nothing else ever can

as it lovingly blooms to you.

But, alas, loving I am not.

Indeed, I am devoid of love—

only my sister is the fairest,

yet not so beautiful as kind.

She is prettier than kindness.

What joy there to be at her feet,

devoted, to be her servant.

First Sister:

Stop prattling so much. The time spent

talking could be spent doing some work,

to put forth devoted effort.

Now take your hand off my dress!

Cinderella:

If I must serve devotedly

and I mustn’t require a hand,

with what shall I do my work?

Would it only get done in thoughts

on the fly, then this filthy hand

that angers you won’t be required.

My yearning would put your clothes on,

wait on you with the finest things.

Then my heart would be a servant,

one just gentle enough, perhaps.

So a joy for work works for you—

wouldn’t that surely work for you?

First Sister:

Would you shut up for once. And who

likes hearing all this chatter too.

Cinderella:

And who would—indeed—and my tongue

must work in a hurry with my hand

so that happiness keeps them both

out of breath. This way when a word

pops out of my mouth and would tempt

my hand, when such lures from the tongue

its abundance, my merry words

soon double what hands can do, like

words with fingers. Hand and voice kiss,

both married in the dearest way.

First Sister:

Both of them are lazy. And you,

their mistress, are as well. That’s why

you must always get a beating.

Off with you now.

She exits.

Cinderella (calling to her):

Beat me, beat me.

The Prince appears above in the gallery.

Prince:

I don’t know how I came into

this fairy tale. I only asked

for a drink the way hunters do.

However, these rooms here are such

eyes can’t see, the mind not easily

grasp. A glow floats upon the wall.

The scent of yellow roses spreads forth.

Like a soul it comes and goes

and solemnly takes my hand.

I stand still as if enchanted.

This thing clings to my senses.

Then this narrow space reopens.

The roof sways. This gallery dances

softly underfoot. What’s going on?

Ah, below is some sweet presence.

I will accept what this thing is

even if I can’t understand it.

Cinderella: