27. Here I Am
[VYSARIUS moves toward the telescope, drifting like smoke. He grips the sheet and tears it off. Single golden spot on the telescope, on its transformation—now it, too, is a golden thing, and covered over in a sweep of sculpted figures locked in a limitless series of static copulations.
LEOPOLD rises and moves toward the telescope. The pale intercessor goads him on. MOONS, WORLDS, and SUNS enter, whirl around in long, balletic orbits.]
LEOPOLD, to the telescope.
Does the dawn steal from the rose?
Do you know with what you shine?
And though the roses are much closer,
I never wished a rose was mine.
And you said:
I called you not,
I called you not,
Come back tomorrow.
Here I am,
Here I am,
And I could hold you.
All your sweetness drifts through darkness,
I am thrown in open skies.
All the ocean that lies between us,
I could vault in just one stride!
And you said:
If you will,
If you will,
Come back tomorrow.
Here I am,
Here I am,
And I could hold you.
Burning sun could never linger
On the white sand of the moon.
Now you’re drifting from my fingers,
Do you have to go so soon?
And you said:
Hear me now,
Hear me now,
Come back tomorrow.
See me now,
See me now,
No more sorrow.
Here I am,
Here I am,
And I could hold you.
[LEOPOLD finally gazes into the telescope. Once more a darkness passes over, and, through the window, we see the massive shadow of a hand stretch out across the heavens. With a cry, LEOPOLD wrenches himself away from the glass and falls to the ground.
The shadow passes away. The dancers have gone and the magician follows after, drifting like a mist across the face of the deep.
LEOPOLD is alone. After a time, he staggers to his feet. He stumbles and follows swiftly where VYSARIUS has gone.]