Whichever way I spin round

makes me act the wrong way.

This heart’s a ball in play!

And, like little balls, feelings roll

this way and that just for fun.

I, who should stop them,

am the object of this game.

This scares me, but at the same time

I have so little to worry about.

I laugh, but in my laughter

something’s serious, ominous,

which makes me laugh anew.

The seriousness it gives my work

is such frightful fun it would make

even bitter fate smile, which, I think,

isn’t easy. No, when I cried

my cares and troubles laughed at me.

I’d rather laugh them both away

into a dear and touching thing.

There’s still plenty of time left

to cry once time itself cries.

Prince (leaning over the railing):

Are you a fairy tale, fair child?

Are your feet and hands such

that if I touched them their beauty

would disappear into thin air?

I beg of you as one who pleads

for mercy. Are you an image

and only appear as such?

Cinderella:

Sir! I am Cinderella.

See the dirt on my dress? It says so

as clear as does my mouth.

Prince:

You’re an angel. Tenderness,

as if embarrassed by that word’s

meaning, stammers you’re an angel.

What else could you be?

Cinderella:

A silly little thing

properly embarrassed,

who’d like to know who you are.

Prince:

You give and receive my answer

at the very moment you ask.

Cinderella:

No, don’t tell me. You’re a prince,

a king’s son. I can see that

in this lost creature who no longer

fits in our time. An ermine cape

is draped over your shoulders.

You carry a sword and lance

no longer in style. That’s what I see.

But I could be mistaken.

A king’s son, you are surely.

Prince:

Surely, just as you are to me

a bride.

Cinderella:

Did you say that I am your bride?

O don’t say that! It hurts me to see

myself mocked and so tenderly misloved

by such a well-meaning young man.

Prince:

I can already see a crown

shimmering, pressed into your hair,

an image before which art stands

aloof and love looks at a loss.

Cinderella:

Why did you come here then and how?

Prince:

This the fairy tale tells you last,

when on the dear fairy tale’s lips

this silence lies, when voice and sound,

color and noise, and waterfall

and lake and forest have faded.

When this happens, at once just how

will spring into your eyes. But then

why I am here I do not know.

Pity and tenderness are sly

spirits, indeed, whose work cannot

be divined. So simply be still.

Submit yourself to the stern fate

that has befallen you. It will

all come to an explanation.

Cinderella falls into contemplative sleep.

The King and Chancellor appear above in the gallery.

King: