The fiddler loves the dancing girl.

She turns,

glides,

twists in front of him

like the sparks of the fire behind.

Her many-colored skirts,

green

blue

gold

swirl like flame.

The fiddler loves the dancing girl.

He plays for her every evening,

the melodies climbing and twining

like vines

for her.

But she does not look at him,

never a glance.

She dances for the strong men,

the warriors,

the heroes.

And to the rhythm of his songs

the fiddler's heart dies.