Tremble, tremble, tremble like a deer…
Don’t you be afraid of me, my dear.
What a shape…and those velvet eyes…
They will be my best accessorize.
It’s so late, the opera is empty.
Only the ghosts of pretty little singers
with red hair and powder on the face
walk around in their undecayed lace.
You are so perfect, so pure;
you will make a lovely morning cure.
If you cry, I’ll pour you some champagne.
Have you been to Italy? To Spain?
You are a Faun – and I am your Apollo.
Theatre is a temple, it needs a victim.
All I want from you is your winged soul,
and you will be able to reach your goal.